Chapter 1
⭐📸💄GRACE💄📸⭐
“Where’s Mom?”
Samuel’s voice echoes down the hallway.
I stare at the clock.
2:13 AM.
Empty wine bottle on the counter.
Front door unlocked.
Again.
I wake before the alarm. For a second, I think I’ve overslept. My heart is already racing by the time I check the clock.
5:42.
Not late. Just another nightmare.
I stare at the ceiling until my breathing slows. Pointless. The dreams never stop for long.
The stack of unpaid medical envelopes on the kitchen table flashes through my head before I can stop it.
I get up.
I make my way into the kitchen, slouching and scowling at every damn object that dares to stand in my way. I can’t function before I get my morning cup of coffee. The first of many.
Soon I’m leaning on the counter with the burning coffee in my hand, looking at the sunrise. It’s unfair for any human being to be conscious before sunrise. It should be a criminal offence to demand that.
The view from my little rowhouse in Hampden, Baltimore almost makes up for the early hour. That is, until my mood is ruined by loud barking and music blasting loud enough to cause permanent hearing damage.
I frown, leaning closer to the window to see who’s responsible for the cacophony outside, but I can’t see anyone. The barking’s not quieting down, though, and I’m almost ready to go knocking on the neighbour’s door, pyjamas and all. I didn’t even know the old granny owned any dogs. To be honest, though, I’ve only lived here for a year, so I really wouldn’t know. To my – or the neighbour’s – luck, the dogs finally shut up, possibly having found a forbidden treat, and I pull my phone from its charger.
Don’t forget to pick up the dress before you come here. –SQ
The coffee sours in my mouth. Who does she think I am? Her personal slave? I’m hermake-up artist, for God’s sake, not a maid. I’m sure this wasn’t in the contract. I read ittwice. Including the small print. And she didn’t even say good morning. Bitch.
I contemplate throwing my phone through the window, but my ringtone startles me. I stare at the screen, breath catching. I don’t move a muscle, as if he would hear me if I did. The phone rings away, but I don’t answer. I don’t want to. I can’t, it’s too early. What’s everyone doing up so early? It’s not even 6 yet. I don’t dare hang up, though. He’ll know.
I release a shaky breath as the phone finally goes silent. I reply to Sienna with a curt “OK”, before heading upstairs to get dressed. I leave the phone in the kitchen, the call nagging at my nerves too much to risk having it close.
I ignore the sensation of being watched. He doesn’t have to be physically present for me to panic. Why did I get into this again?
I do my makeup, my gaze travelling to the window’s reflection in the mirror every five seconds. My hands are shaking. I decide I’ve had enough and close the bathroom door. It helps. A little.
I move on to my hair, combing it into a high ponytail. The curls are just as fidgety as me and won’t stay in place. I press my lips together. Unacceptable. I can’t go out like this. She’ll see right through me, they both will. I’m already pushing time, though, so I turn away from my inadequate form in the mirror and stride back into the kitchen to pick up my phone before I leave.
I almost drop it on the floor when I see two more missed calls and one unread message. I steel myself before I peek at it.
You left your phone in the kitchen. –Cameron
I freeze. I can’t tear my gaze away from the screen. I don’t breathe. I take a step back. Then another, until my shoulder hits the wall. My legs give out before I realise I’ve stopped moving.
I don’t have time to compose myself or finish my routine. As soon as I can stand, I fly out of the door. I usually drive to work, but I know I can’t manage in my current state, so I take the bus.
It seems luck hasn’t left me completely, because the bus comes on time and so do I. I burrow into a seat near the end and hope nobody will notice my trembling. It’s the cold. It has to be. The April unpredictability, I must have underdressed.
The stuffy air stinks of cannabis, the seat is uncomfortable and the driver is atrocious. Every time the driver brakes, I nearly end up in someone’s lap.
I stop at Paragon Wear for Sienna’s dress, even though I’m tempted not to take it at all. Or to take a wrong one. Perhaps I would have if I’d had the energy and if Cameron hadn’t been breathing down my neck to do my jobproperly.
The ride to Bellona-Gittings takes me much longer than it should. I wish I’d taken the car after all; I’ve more or less calmed down by now. Never again.
On the walk from the bus stop to Sienna’s house - castle, really - political graffiti stretches across half the block.
THERE’S NO PLANET B, one wall declares, a tiny painted Earth underneath.
PROTECT TRANS KIDS says a sticker slapped onto a streetlight pole.
Then my gaze lands on the gold-plated sign above Sienna Quinn’s gate.
I wonder if this pretentious wealth display provides her any real satisfaction. Could it be a desperate attempt at attention grab? A not-so-silent plea not to let her sink into oblivion, the way celebrities tend to, eventually?
I ring the fancy golden doorbell and her butler opens after a few minutes of waiting. Yes, she has a butler. Several, in fact. I force a smile and enter the mansion.
“Took you long enough,” Sienna greets me as I enter her parlour.
“The bus was late,” I reply equally coldly. I won’t apologize for something that I can’t control.
“I don’t care.” She spins on her fake leather chair and faces me. Her measured gaze slides down my messy form. “What are you wearing?” she asks, her voice spiking with disdain. I stand there silently, glad that she didn’t see me break down this morning, but no less self-conscious about my appearance. I’ve changed my mind about the leather chair, it’s probably not fake.
“Remind me to lend you a few hundred bucks. Sienna Quinn’s employees can’t go around wearing flared jeans and knitted sweaters. Who made that, your grandmother?”
I bite back a sharp reply.
“My mother, actually,” I answer, cool as ever. I can see her trying not to roll her eyes at me. At this point I’m almost convinced Sienna would be easier to manipulate than Cameron. If I could make him disappear, I would. I know now I’d do just as well without him if Sienna is so generous with her money.
“What are we doing today?” I ask to distract myself.
“Did you get my dress from the boutique?” Sienna asks instead, narrowing her eyes in suspicion.
“Of course. I gave it to your butler.”
I try to keep the scorn in my voice minimal. If she notices, she doesn’t comment.
“I have an interview on The Final Take with Riley Hartman. You should come along; I might need you to fix my make-up or bring me coffee during the ad break.”
Aninterview.The planning of theexecution has me so engrossed that I barely register the last part.
Here comes Grace the domestic servant again. She needs to feel important.
I smile at the thought. Sienna misinterprets it as my utmost gratitude for letting me prance along.
“No need to thank me. I’m not doing it for you.”
I wasn’t going to.
I don’t like the studio. The reflectors are too bright and the walls too red and Sienna’s voice too high-pitched. It makes me nauseous. I’m still fidgety from the message this morning and I’m scared Sienna will notice my trembling hands as I try to do her eyeliner.
She doesn’t. She’s restless herself, pacing up and down the green room, snapping at staff like they’ve personally offended her.
She adjusts the chair. Then the cup holding brushes. Then me.
“Do you need me to bring you something?” I stare at her.
Her irritated gaze flicks over me, but she finally calms down so I can work on her lips.
Fifteen more minutes and her make-up is done. While waiting for the show to start, a random staff member came over to chat, possibly about the latest showbiz rumours. I refuse to humour her, keeping my attention on or around Sienna. Usually, I would at least listen to the gossip, if only to sniff out potential reliable info sources, but today I have neither the energy nor the motivation. I just want to listen to the interview and be done with today.
To my relief, the girl gives up on me soon, and the host walks onto the stage. Sienna is already seated on the comfortable-looking purple armchair, her dark hair flowing neatly down her back. She’s smiling now, stepping into the role.
I’d never survive this. Staying out of camera’s glare seems much more comfortable–and safer. I hate to admit it, but I admire her in a way. She refuses to fade. I don’t know how.
Riley Hartman, the notorious host, yells into the microphone.
“Good afternoon, Baltimore—this isThe Final Take, where nothing stays behind the scenes for long. Today’s guest is Sienna Quinn—icon, survivor, and, depending on who you ask, a woman Hollywood didn’t quite know what to do with. Sienna, it’s been a while. Where have you been hiding?”
I detest hosts like that. They talk more than the guests.
Sienna, however, smiles casually as if she’s been waiting for this.
“Hello to you, too, Riley and the rest of Baltimore. You’re right, I haven’t been around much, but that wasn’t my choice. I’ve had a bit of a hard time lately. My health’s not what it used to be.”
Hard time - sure.
“I’ve been spending more time at home lately. With my husband.”
That’s new.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Has he been supportive through all of this?”
“Always.” Her smile tightens.
Too quick.
“Should we expect a grand comeback?”
Sienna leans in as if she’s letting her in on a secret, but her next sentence feels like a slap.
“Only if my producer remembers I exist.”
Riley smiles unkindly.
“Do tell, do you think Hollywood treats women fairly as they age?”
Right in the feels. Sienna stills—just for a second, but her smile returns, even brighter than before.
“No,” she says. “But I supposethey forget; we don’t lose our value just because we stop being young.”
“That’s a good line,” Riley smiles like she might reuse it later.
“I’ve always believed women should speak up.”
“Silence is complicity,” Riley replies.
Of course it is.
That’s why I work for Cameron.
The lights dim. Applause fades. A phone buzzes. Sienna stands immediately.
“I’ll be right back.”
She pushes past me, down the corridor. The door clicks behind her. I give her a head start, then follow.
“I can’t talk right now.”
Her voice carries through the fire exit door. I linger by the coffee machine.
“No, I know what I said.”
The coffee smells like regret.
“It doesn’t matter.”
She turns slightly and I catch the tension in her jaw through the glass.
“We’ll deal with it later.”
She hangs up. The door creaks as she enters. I don’t look up until she’s beside me. I silently hand her the coffee. She takes a sip and grimaces. Then she heads back towards the set.
Interesting.
As if in agreement, my phone lights up.
Stay with her.
I suppress a shiver and follow. She’s already by the curtain, adjusting a strand of hair that doesn’t need fixing.
“Did I mention him already?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” she nods to herself. Someone counts down from five.
Riley sits in the glare of the reflectors, ready to keep digging.
“You know, it’s funny... people think your reputation gets built on premieres and awards,” she says, tapping her chin. “But it’s rarely the big scandals that stick. Half the time it’s the small ones caught at the exact wrong angle.”
Sienna’s smile is tense now. Riley continues, conversational.
“Like the Arden Foundation gala. You left early. Cameras caught it, the publicist spun it into a ‘scheduling conflict,’ and everyone just... agreed to move on. That rarely happens unless someone important wants it to.”
Sienna smirks, regaining her composure.
“I didn’t realize attendance at galas was being graded.”
Riley hums, and it’s hard to tell whether it’s in approval or disapproval.
“I see you’re still sharp as ever.”
She takes a measured breath and her voice drops lightly.
“There was an interview a few years ago that never aired. Whole segment wiped. Not even the audio survived, which is impressive, honestly. The network called it a technical failure. Their IT department probably still laughs about that story.”
Sienna stills completely. I wonder if she’ll crack. I suppose Riley wonders the same, because she pushes on.
“It’s always interesting when a ‘technical failure’ knows exactly which part of the conversation to forget.”
“It didn’t fit the final cut,” Sienna says, adjusting her sleeve. Riley smiles wider now—she’s found something hot and rotting under the surface.
“That’s a very polite way of saying it made someone nervous.”
She must have decided she was done pressing on that bruise, because she leans back in her chair, as if to gloat in her minor win. I’m getting tired of the drama. I want Riley to wrap things up quickly.
“Speaking of things thatdomake it to the final cut... In this industry, people don’t usually disappear unless something’s happening behind the curtain. Are you rebuilding, or just recovering?”
“I don’t really think in those terms. Rebuilding suggests something fell apart.”
Then her voice softens a notch.
“Only because people stopped looking for a while doesn’t mean I’ve disappeared or stopped working.”
“I’ve heard rumours about a very controlled production. No press visits, leaks or accidental paparazzi sightings at the gate.”
Riley smiles like she rehearses empathy in mirrors.
“Almost like someone learned what happens when too many people get access to the same story.”
I notice this is neither an accusation nor a question. It lands like a quiet implication slipped under the table.
“Or maybe I just prefer finishing things before I talk about them,” Sienna answers.
Riley chuckles; not amused, more like she’s acknowledging a rival.
“God, I wish more people in this city said things like that and meant it.”
Then she pivots fully.
“So, whatisit? Film? Documentary? Some hybrid thing your PR team hasn’t invented a category for yet?”
“It’s a memoir.”
“A memoir,” Riley repeats slowly, like she’s tasting the word. “Sounds harmless. That’s usually when it isn’t.”
Sienna doesn’t take the bait this time.
Riley lets the silence simmer for a moment before adding lightly: “Well, whatever it is, it’s the first time in a while that people can’t seem to agree on what they’re actually looking at.”
She winks at Sienna with satisfaction.
“And that usually means someone’s winning the narrative war.”
Sienna let me go earlier than usual. After whatever today was, I need to unwind. I don’t head straight home like I planned to. Instead, I head for The Nightingale.
This is embarrassing, but I spend more time in this particular pub than I’d like. It’s the atmosphere, I suppose. It’s cool, dark and quiet.
“You did what?!”
Never mind.
“You can’t just throw him out like that! He had no money!”
“Julie, drop it.”
I grit my teeth and side-eye the source of the noise. A small, blue-haired woman who must be a new staff member is arguing with the bar owner. So much for quiet. I take a long sip of my mojito.
“No, because this is insane!”
Both her hands are planted on the counter and one of her shoelaces is untied. Paint stains her apron. Between that and the blue hair, I would have remembered her.
“Julie, he couldn’t pay.”
“So you throw him out? He ate half a burger, not a human child.”
I notice her voice become sharper, more serious. She’s talking to him like they’re equals.
“That’s not the point,” the manager says while drying off wine glasses a bit too aggressively.
“Then what is the point? Because from where I’m standing, the point seems to be that nobody here cares unless money is involved.”
I look up despite myself.
“That’s nothing new,” the manager shrugs.
“Yeah, but ruining someone’s life over it? That’s messed up.”
Fuck my life, then.
I contemplate leaving, but she’s faster than me. She storms out of the pub, but her agitation keeps crackling in the air long after she’s gone. I guess she won’t stick around then. That kind of honesty tends to shorten employment.
My gaze lands on a teddy bear on the counter. JULIE, is spelt in big, wonky letters on the ribbon around its neck. I keep stealing furtive glances at it, waiting for the woman to return for it. Ten minutes later, it’s still just me and the teddy bear.
They’ll toss it. Someone will clean the counter and it’ll be gone in five minutes.
That’s... inefficient.
The waiter disappears from view and I grab the bear before I can reconsider it. He can’t have noticed, because his face is cheerful as he hands me the check.
I step out onto the street, taking a deep breath. The air smells of wet brick, cigarette smoke and something sweeter - wildflowers, maybe.
Loud barking greets me as I get to my house. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. I find three scrawny mutts digging through my trash. Coffee filters, makeup wipes and old newspapers litter the sidewalk halfway down the block.
“Ollie, Bruno, Poppy! Stop!”
The voice hits my skull like microphone feedback. I turn. Blue hair.
“You.”
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, is this your house?”
I stare at her dishevelled figure. She looks one inconvenience away from collapsing face-first onto the pavement.
“Okay, technically this is their fault, but in their defence, trash cans are kind of classist—”
“What?”
She’s on the ground with the dogs now, trying to restrain them with one hand while gathering the newspapers with the other. One of the newspapers skids toward her shoe and I’m on the ground before I can think better of it, snatching up the evidence.
“Oh, you really shouldn’t be helping me, I’ll take care of it,” she tries to shoo me away. I scowl at her and she shrinks.
“Okay, fine, do whatever you want. But I really am sorry for causing a stir.”
“Just leave it to me,” I force through gritted teeth. I’m afraid she’ll find things she shouldn’t.
“No, I really can’t, it would be so impolite of me. Let me help.”
God, she doesn’t know when to give up.
“I don’t need your help.”
I’m raising my voice now. She half-stumbles away from me, rubbing her hands on her upper arms. One of her dogs growls at me. Fair enough.
We’ve collected most of the trash and it goes right back into the bin. I make a mental note to immediately find a stray brick or two to put on top.
I’m visibly slouching now and I just want to disappear into the safety of my house.
“You look like you haven’t slept in days,” she comments.
I already know she’s the kind of person who asks questions nobody wants to answer. I shoot another death glare her way.
“What do you care?” I murmur.
“I’m truly sorry,” she repeats, sheepish.
“Just keep your dogs away from my house.”
“I will. I’m sorry to have made such a terrible impression. See, I’m new to this city and I really didn’t want to sour the relationships with my new neighbours in the first week.”
My stomach drops.
“Wait. You live in that house?” I point to the blue row house right next to mine and hope she’ll deny.
“Yeah...”
Fuck everything.
“Where’s the old lady who used to live here? Marian?”
“I think she moved to a senior living facility. Had a heart attack or something like that. Did you cut your hand?”
I look down and realize my hand is clenched around a broken piece of glass.
“Fantastic.”
I turn toward my house.
“Wait-”
I slam the door behind me.
