Chapter 4

Party

Once Ryan’s public appearance outside was over, we made our way into the plush theater for the screening of Reparation. Gone were the feelings of doubt, replaced by new confidence about my role as his fiancée.

I tried to concentrate on the film but it was difficult, knowing that Ryan was mostly watching my reactions instead of the screen.

He had already seen the film during private screenings when he had to do voice-overs and I knew he didn’t like watching his own movies. He said it was the narcissistic aspect of it that bothered him.

Ryan whispered with disbelief into my ear. “Are you crying?”

“Shh.” I elbowed him gently and wiped the moisture from my cheek. I couldn’t help it; Ryan’s character had just saved a bullied teenage girl from committing suicide when she tried to hang herself in the school cafet-eria. To say it was heart-wrenching was an understatement.

Ryan was overly concerned by my emotional reaction, laughing uncomfortably and nudging me as if to break the hold the film had on my attention. When I didn’t give in to his provoking, he looked past me and sighed when he saw that his mother was crying, too.

I took his hand in mine and brought it to my lips. I didn’t know how else to tell him how awestruck I was.

“Oh my God!” Marie breathed out, turning around to face us when the movie was over.

Both she and Tammy were wiping their fingers under their eyes from the tear-jerker ending. The credits were rolling when I grabbed Ryan’s lapel to pull him in for a quick kiss. I nuzzled up against him, wiping my tears away, trying to regain my touch with reality after that emotional roller-coast-er ride. My future husband was absolutely remarkable. I had never felt so much pride for a man before this moment.

Less than an hour later, we arrived at the hotel where my first lavish after-party was being held.

Before our car came to a complete stop, Ryan focused on me, whispering last-minute instructions. “Stay with me, okay? Do not let go of my hand. And do not look at the paparazzi or say anything to them. Just follow my lead.”

My pulse was thrumming at a dizzying pace. Paparazzi landed on our car from all sides, yelling, shouting, lighting up the night-time sky with thousands of bright flashes. I anticipated that Mike would immediately open my door but instead he halted, yelling at the paparazzi to back up. Moving Ryan from place to place was a daunting task, to say the least. The three or four annoying paparazzi who hounded him while he was in Rhode Island with me were nothing compared to the fifty or more that swarmed us now. A few cameramen were shoving in closer, constricting around us like hungry vi-pers at feeding time, while brawny event security guards helped Mike move us along. I felt Ryan’s hand tense as he speed-walked us toward the entrance.

Ryan’s agent, Aaron Lyons, immediately collected us when we entered the lavish ballroom, giving me a warm hug and an adoring kiss on the cheek. Another welcomed relief.

At least his agent wanted to be friendly and play nice.

Aaron knew exactly how to work a room full of Hollywood money and power, introducing us to everyone important and steering us away from those deemed unworthy of our precious time. Aaron treated me with kindness, continuously referring to me as “Ryan’s fiancée, the lovely Ms. Taryn Mitchell.”

We chatted with producers, studio executives, screenwriters, scriptwriters, cinematographers, sound editors, and every girlfriend, wife, husband, and partner who came with them. Business cards were flashed and I gladly took them when offered. This was high-profile networking—Hollywood-style. A far cry from the demands of owning a simple stand-alone business, but nothing I couldn’t handle.

I at least had enough business sense to know that regardless of the particular industry, business is business—and it comes with a predefined set of rules. Most of the time, the power to make you or break you depends on your ability to make a good first impression.

This was Ryan’s world and if I had any hopes of surviving in it, I had to start paying attention to how the game was played. So I started with the basics. Easy to do, since the majority of the room was male. And at the core, men are easily swayed by good ol’ fashioned charm.

I laced in there another no-brainer that was as comfortable to me as breathing—the first rule of business. You want to know how something works, you follow the money. You find out how it’s made and who controls it.

And then you speak the language.

Ryan and I were in mid-conversation with his Reparation co-star and onscreen love interest, Jenna Rayford, and Jonathan Follweiler and his wife, Anna, when out of nowhere Marla approached and barged into our circle, wearing that fake smile she so insidiously presents to the rest of the unknowing world.

“Jonathan!” she said warmly, giving him an air kiss. “So good to see you again.” Ryan took a swig of beer from the bottle in his hand and looked away, making that little sucking sound through his teeth that he always does when he’s irritated. I squeezed his hand gently and contemplated our exit strategy. It didn’t take me long to come up with one.

“I’d like to talk with Kelly and Call before they leave,” I said privately in his ear, spotting them sitting at a table. “Come with me?” Ryan didn’t hesitate. We politely excused ourselves.

“Oh Ryan?” Marla called out, hurrying behind us. “I was wondering if we might speak.”

Damn, we weren’t quick enough.

Ryan stopped and groaned. “What?” he said sharply. “What do you want?”

“Oh, come now. Surely you’re not still sour with me? What happened earlier is in the past. I know you didn’t mean to say those awful things and I want you to know that I forgive you.”

Ryan scoffed. “You really are a piece of work, Marla. I can’t believe I’ve been so blind to you for all these years. Just so there’s no confusion, I meant what I said earlier. You are no longer my publicist.” I was proud of him for sticking to his guns.

Marla’s head wiggled on her neck as she collected herself. I could clearly, as if looking through a piece of glass, see her coat the tip of her next sentence with poison.

“Let me remind you—if you choose to sever our relationship, you sever your interactions with my entire organization as well.”

“Fine,” Ryan said, unruffled. “I’m sure you’ll send me a bill.”

Marla’s lips twitched.

“Tricia,” she bellowed towards the bar where Trish was hiding, secretly observing. Marla impatiently snapped her fingers. God, I hated that. I wanted to snap her bony fingers like twigs.