Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

ACT ONE: When Sparks Meet Screenplays

“‘Till everything burns, while everyone screams

Burning their lies, burning my dreams

All of this hate and all of this pain

I’ll burn it all down, as my anger reigns”

(Ben Moody & Anastacia – Everything Burns)

Strawberries were the fruit of seduction and intrigue.

At least, that was what Fran Fine thought. 

Not that she’d ever seduced anyone with one before. She’d used so many other options (a look, a laugh, a dress that could stop traffic on Sunset Boulevard) that this particular fruit never crossed her mind. Strawberries just seemed too obvious and symbolic. If there was one thing she wasn’t, it was predictable.

Or maybe she was.

Because now she was sitting in her mother’s restaurant, forking her way through a bowl of fresh strawberries as if they might hold the answers to the universe.

Crossing her legs in a graceful manner, she twirled the stem with her manicured fingers. Her red heels dangled idly as she brought another glossy strawberry to her lips. She chewed thoughtfully. “I mean, if strawberries are supposed to be so seductive, how come they never worked for me?” she muttered, rolling her eyes.

Not that she hadn’t been creative before. She remembered how much fun she’d had with that sweet honey and chocolate chip cookies, how softly she broke her now-ex boyfriend using only mint ice cream and overripe bananas. She’d turned every night into performance art.

Now she was just tired of performing. She didn’t even have the energy for dramatics. Her life had become a carousel of red carpets and flashbulbs, all spinning faster than her ability to fake a smile. Under the spotlight, every step formed a curse wrapped in a shiny box that they presented to the world as a head on a silver platter.

Sometimes she wondered if she still belonged to herself at all.

She’d been ambushed by the paparazzi so many times that she couldn’t even remember peace. Her name was highlighted in different headlines every week, each one more scandalous than the last. They dragged her name through mud and tore down every breath she took so aggressively that she didn’t even remember how it felt to exist without being strangled and devoured alive by those vultures.

“Fran Fine Flaunts a Mystery Man!”

“Hollywood’s Sweetheart or Scandal Magnet?”

“Fine or Finished? Hollywood’s Favorite Siren in Trouble Again!”

“Fran’s Fall from Grace – Again!”

“Fine’s Wine-Fueled Meltdown Outside Chateau Marmont!”

She hadn’t even been drinking that night. It was kombucha. But try telling that to people who made their living off lies.

The soft clink of silverware broke through her thoughts. She blinked, realizing she’d been staring through her reflection in the bistro’s window for at least five minutes. Outside, the early morning sun washed Los Angeles in a syrupy gold. Inside, the air smelled of frying oil, garlic, and nostalgia.

Sylvia’s Fine Dining had always been wildly popular. Sure, it started out as a tiny Jewish deli in Queens that could barely fit six people, but fast forward ten years, it expanded to Los Angeles and became a spot where celebrities, old Broadway stars, and even a few politicians snuck in for comfort food and gossip. 

Sylvia knew everyone. The wall on the far left was practically a Wall of Fame, filled with polaroid pictures of famous people. She fed talk show hosts and bragged about her daughter being a movie star. It was endearing and annoying in the same breath, like most things with her mother were.

“Are you gonna eat the whole bowl or are you leavin’ some for the customers?” Sylvia’s voice cut through the haze, equal parts exasperation and affection.

Fran smiled faintly. “Ma, I’m contemplatin’. That’s a thing now. Hollywood people do it.” The corner of her mouth curved. She had missed the grounding chaos of this restaurant, the pink tablecloths that didn’t match, and the wall of family photos so crowded that new additions had to be layered over old ones.

“Seriously, sweetheart,” Sylvia said, lowering her voice. “You okay? You look… worn down. Like a leftover brisket someone reheated one too many times.”

Fran toyed with her spoon. “I’m fine.”

“That’s what you always say right before you make a Fine mess.”

“I’m restin’, Ma.”

“Restin’? You’re twenty-nine, not ninety! You should be out there schmoozin’, flirtin’, findin’ some rich producer to–”

“Ma!”

Sylvia stopped mid-lecture, a glimmer of curiosity lighting up her eyes. “Ohhh. So that’s what this is about. There is someone.”

Fran blinked, too quickly. “There’s no one. Unless you count my dry cleaner, but he’s married. Probably.”

Sylvia leaned back, satisfied. “Uh-huh. You always get quiet like this when a man’s involved. So spill. Who is he?”

“Ma.”

“You got that look. That little sparkle in your eye. Same one you had before that dentist from Brooklyn… what was his name–”

“He wasn’t a dentist, Ma, he was a dental hygienist.”

“Ah, well. Still gave me cavities.”

Fran laughed in spite of herself. The warmth of it surprised her; it felt unfamiliar, resembling something she’d misplaced in all the noise of her new life.

Her gaze wandered back to the window, where the sunlight had begun to rise into a bruised orange. Somewhere out there, she knew, was the city that had built her up and broken her down. Somewhere out there, her next mistake was probably waiting with cufflinks and charm.

If the universe had any sense of humor (which it always did), he’d walk back into her life sooner than she wanted.

Sylvia followed her gaze and smirked. “You got that faraway look again.”

Fran exhaled. “Ma… I’m thinkin’ about my career.”

Sylvia snorted. “Sure, sure. And I only watch Jeopardy! for the questions.”

Fran looked down at the last strawberry in her bowl. It glistened as temptation itself. She plucked it up, turning it in her fingers, and smiled at no one in particular. “Maybe it’s time I found a new story,” she murmured.

Sylvia raised a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Fran leaned back, lips curving with a trace of mischief. “I dunno yet. But something tells me it’s gonna be juicy.” She let her laughter fade slowly, feeling that old, restless itch return and the need for something to change. She’d been bored. Maybe it was time to let chaos back in.

Hollywood always did love a comeback.

Whiskey burned differently in the morning.

It wasn’t something he did often (at least, not anymore), but there were days when the silence demanded something stronger than coffee.

Maxwell Sheffield let the amber liquid settle in the glass, watching the light catch and dance through it. He swirled it twice, then took a slow sip. It was rich, smoky, and tasted faintly of decisions he no longer questioned.

Approaching his home office window, he watched Los Angeles stretch and glitter in the early sun. The city was already wide awake, screaming with car horns, helicopters, ambition pulsing through every palm tree. He couldn’t quite tell if he hated it or if it had begun to grow on him.

He exhaled, setting the glass down on his desk. Another day, another production schedule, another round of handshakes and hollow compliments awaited. That made mornings like this before the phone calls, the scripts, and the voices, sacred. Only then could he almost pretend life was still his own.

He reached for the pen beside his planner, his movements practiced and deliberate. That was how he lived now: every motion was rehearsed until it passed for calm.

Control was safer than honesty.

His assistant would soon give him the new script drafts. The children were still upstairs, getting ready for school. Gracie would refuse to eat breakfast, Brighton would spill something on his uniform, and Maggie would be on the phone, pretending she wasn’t. He smiled faintly at the thought. Parenthood was the only role he hadn’t needed to audition for, and the only one that ever truly terrified him.

On the far wall, the children’s framed photographs lined a low shelf. All three were caught mid-laughter. The sound of it lived in the walls, even when they weren’t home.

His lips twitched in something like a smile. “God help them,” he murmured, “they’ve inherited your stubbornness.”

His gaze inevitably drifted to the photo beside theirs.

Sara.

The picture was seven years old, but her smile was still brighter than the California sun outside his window. She was in costume, draped in silk, one hand resting on his shoulder as she turned toward the camera. Her smile was radiant, that effortless kind that had made her famous, and the one he used to tease her about during long nights on set.

He still remembered that day. They’d attended the wrap party for their first and last film together. She kissed his cheek after the photo was taken and whispered, “Someday they’ll write a movie about us.”

He supposed, in a way, they had. It just wasn’t the ending she deserved.

One night, soon after the picture was taken, all that light had gone out. Everything shattered in a blink of an eye at a movie premiere, under flashing lights, by a lethal gun in the hands of an overenthusiastic fan who loved her too much and understood her not at all. The world had blurred into sirens and flashbulbs. He could still remember that the air had smelled like expensive perfume, blood, and rain.

He traced the edge of the frame, thumb lingering over the curve of her face.

Seven years. The number still didn’t feel real. The ache hadn’t dulled; it simply learned better manners.

He’d thought time would make grief quieter. Only, grief wasn’t a sound, but a weight. You carried it until it reshaped you, whether you wanted it to or not.

His grief wasn’t loud. It was quiet. Maybe even too quiet.

He never screamed, but his voice cracked whenever her name left his lips. He never cried, but his hands trembled every time he reached for her picture. He never broke down, but he left his old life behind, deciding to never bring it up again, like the past was something one can simply push under the rug.

After she was gone, New York had become unbearable. Every corner seemed haunted, and every echo was hers. So he’d fled across the Atlantic to London, where nobody knew him as the man who’d lost her. England had been quieter, colder, and that was what he’d needed. There, he could be just another producer nursing ghosts with gin and silence.

For a while, that had been enough.

Until it wasn’t.

When he finally moved to Los Angeles a year ago, he’d told himself it was for the company, for new opportunities, and for the children. However, deep down, he knew the truth: he was chasing the ghost of what he and Sara had built, trying to find a version of himself that didn’t hurt so much to live with.

He found himself back among the same chaos he’d tried to escape: cameras, premieres, and actors with too-white teeth. The whole business of illusion awaited. At least here, the ghosts were quieter.

A sudden knock on the door broke the stillness. “Sir?” came Niles’ voice, polite and familiar even across the years and continents. “Your car’s ready. And the children request you refrain from using the espresso machine ever again.”

Maxwell smiled faintly. “Noted.” He took one last look at Sara’s photo, then the whiskey glass beside it, which was half-full or half-empty, depending on the mood.

Work awaited, filled with scripts, cameras, and voices.

“Another day, darling,” he whispered. “Let’s hope this one’s kind.”

Hope, after all, was cheaper than whiskey.

He adjusted his cufflinks, straightened his jacket, and stepped into the bright, unforgiving sunlight of Los Angeles.

If life was going to fall apart, Fran was determined to do it in full glam. The dressing room at the studio was a fever dream of mirrors, curling irons, and chaos. Someone had spilled glitter near the ring light, and it had migrated onto every available surface, including Fran’s elbows.

She sat in the make-up chair, draped in a silken robe that was both luxurious and alarmingly pink, munching on a strawberry as Val teased her hair into what could only be described as controlled defiance.

“I’m tellin’ ya, Val, strawberries are supposed to be this big romantic thing,” Fran said through a mouthful of fruit. “But so far, the only thing they’ve seduced is my blood sugar.”

Val snorted, nearly dropping the can of hairspray. “Honey, if strawberries worked, I’d be married to the guy who owns a fruit stand by now.”

Fran grinned, meeting her friend’s reflection in the mirror. “Please, you’ve been flirtin’ with that man for six years. At this point, you should get joint custody of the stands.”

Val waved the comb like a weapon. “I’m playin’ the long game! He gives me free samples. You know what good fruit costs these days?”

They both broke into laughter that filled the little room with life and spilled out into the long hallway.

“Anyway,” Val said, leaning in to adjust Fran’s eyeliner, spinning the chair towards herself. “You heard about Danny, right?”

Fran froze mid-bite. “Do I want to?”

Val’s grin was wicked. “He’s showin’ his new spring collection next week. All white, all linen, all see-through. And you know who’s wearin’ the final piece?”

Fran groaned. “Don’t say it. I can feel you about to say it.”

“Heather Biblow,” Val sing-songed, because she had no mercy.

“Ugh! The human discount rack.”

Val cackled. “Hey, she’s got potential! She booked a commercial last year.”

“For what?”

“Fabric softener.”

“Perfect,” Fran muttered. “She’s got all the softness of a wet towel.”

Val smacked her arm lightly with the brush. “Don’t get all bitter. You’re better off without him, Frannie. He was about as faithful as a rental car.”

“Oh, believe me, I know.” Fran leaned back, rolling her eyes. “He’s got that fancy label, the runway shows, the press. Meanwhile, I’m sittin’ here tryin’ to convince a photographer that my left side isn’t the only good one.”

Val put her hands on her hips. “You’re gorgeous on every side. And who cares what Danny’s doin’? You’ve got your own career, your own brand, your own–”

“–tax debt?”

Val blinked. “I was gonna say fanbase, but okay, now I’m concerned.”

Fran huffed out a laugh, but there was an edge to it. “Relax, honey. My accountant’s on it. Probably.”

The room buzzed as an assistant popped her head in. “Miss Fine? They’re ready for you on set in five.”

Fran gave the girl her most dazzling smile. “Tell ‘em I’ll be there in four. A lady needs time to marinate.”

As the door shut again, Val gave her hair one last fluff, then spun the chair toward the mirror again. “There,” she said, admiring her own handiwork. “You look like a million bucks.”

“Perfect.” Fran sighed, gazing at her reflection. “Now if only I felt like a buck fifty.”

Val rolled her eyes. “Are you kiddin’? You’re Fran Fine! You’ve got three box-office hits, two Golden Globe nominations, and a fanbase that would riot if you so much as changed your nail polish color. You sneeze, TMZ writes an article about it.”

“Yeah, and then they photoshop a mystery man handing me tissues,” Fran grumbled. “I’m a scandal with legs, Val. A walking headline.”

“So what?” Val countered, sticking a hairpin in place. “You’ve been on magazine covers, movie posters, and talk shows since you were twenty-one. You’ve worked with the biggest directors. People love you, Frannie. You just need a new thing, that’s all.”

Fran stared at her reflection, the fluorescent lights buzzing softly above. “Yeah,” she said, quieter now. “Something new. Something that’s… mine.”

Val caught the change in her tone, tilting her head. “You’re thinkin’ about that new project, aren’t you?”

Fran blinked. “What new project?”

Val narrowed her eyes. “Don’t ‘what project’ me. You dropped it last night at dinner, right after my third martini. You said your agent called about some big audition.”

Fran groaned, pressing a strawberry to her temple, hoping it might erase the memory. “Ugh. I wasn’t supposed to tell you yet. He’s meeting me later to talk about it.”

Val perked up instantly. “What is it? Tell me it’s not another perfume commercial. I swear if I have to smell ‘Essence of Fine’ one more time–”

“It’s not a commercial. It’s a movie, apparently,” Fran interrupted, the corner of her mouth twitching. “A real one. Big studio, big budget, big–”

“–opportunity?” Val supplied, eyes sparkling.

Fran nodded slowly. “Yeah. But it’s serious. Drama, not comedy. So, obviously, it’s ‘out of my usual wheelhouse’ or whateva’.”

“Well, maybe this is it, huh?” Val said, grinning. “Your next big thing. You, serious and dramatic, cryin’ on cue, lookin’ stunning in soft lighting. Maybe you’ll win an Oscar.”

Fran smirked. “Val, I already cry on cue. It’s called dating in Los Angeles.”

Val grinned. “You make it look good, honey.”

Fran smiled back, something wistful in her eyes. “Yeah, well. Here’s hopin’ the universe agrees.” She stood, slipped off her robe to reveal a stunning red gown that looked designed to break hearts, and squared her shoulders. 

She looked like a star. She just didn’t feel like one.

As Val gathered the brushes, she called out, “Don’t forget to flirt with the photographer this time!”

Fran tossed her hair over her shoulder and winked. “Please. I was born flirting.”

With that, she strutted out, all confidence and lipstick and glitter. The cameras were waiting, the world was watching, and she would give them something to talk about.

When Maxwell got out of his home office, Niles appeared in the doorway, holding a travel mug.

“Thank you, Niles,” Maxwell said, giving a polite smile. He reached for his briefcase, his jacket, and his mask of calm. “Are the children ready for school?”

“Oh, quite. Master Brighton’s filming something he’s calling ‘A Day in the Life of the Unappreciated Genius’, which I believe is autobiographical.”

“Lovely,” Maxwell muttered. “And Margaret?”

“Trying on an alarming number of hats, sir. For modeling purposes, she claims. I didn’t have the heart to tell her none of them matched.”

Maxwell exhaled. “Of course.” He followed Niles out into the living room, and the sound of his children’s voices hit him like sunlight.

Maggie was perched on the arm of the sofa, hanging up the phone after what could only be described as another gossiping session with her best friend, hair styled to perfection. Brighton was on the floor, surrounded by cables and camera parts.

Gracie sat cross-legged on the rug, holding a teacup with no tea, and talking earnestly to a corner of the room. “Imogene says she doesn’t like the new nanny,” she informed the air.

From behind the piano, Heather Biblow twirled a spoon and smiled. “Oh, sweetie, that’s just because she’s not real.”

Gracie frowned. “Neither are most of your eyelashes, but you don’t see me judging.”

Niles choked on a laugh, and Maxwell pressed his lips together to hide a smile.

“Miss Biblow,” he said, his voice polite but firm. “I trust you’ve packed Gracie’s lunch?”

Heather blinked. “Oh! Right. I was just about to.” She set down her smoothie, which had more collagen powder than actual fruit, and disappeared into the kitchen in a cloud of perfume.

His nanny was… interesting, for lack of a better word. A former model, an occasional actress, and a constant headache. She was exactly what you’d expect from someone who once guest-starred on a soap opera and thought she deserved an Emmy for it – beautiful, clueless, and wildly self-absorbed.

Maggie groaned dramatically. “Dad, you promised she’d stay at least until I finish the mentorship program with Chloe. I can’t have another nanny right now. The press already thinks I’m unstable.”

“You’re eighteen,” Maxwell said gently. “You don’t need a nanny. And for the last time, modeling isn’t–”

“–a real career, I know,” Maggie snapped, rolling her eyes. “You’ve said it a thousand times.”

“Because it’s true,” he replied. “I just don’t want–”

“–me ending up like Mom,” she cut in softly.

The air went still. Even Brighton stopped tinkering.

Maxwell closed his eyes, a flash of Sara’s photo still vivid in his mind. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” Maggie’s tone softened. “But I’m not her, Dad.”

He looked at her then. She was so confident, so much like Sara, but with a stubborn streak entirely her own. He wanted to tell her she was brilliant, that she didn’t need flashbulbs and runways to be seen. Unfortunately, he also knew she needed to live, and that was something he’d been too afraid to let any of them do.

Brighton broke the silence. “Can someone sign my permission slip before Imogene eats it?”

Gracie turned toward him indignantly. “Imogene doesn’t eat paper. She’s lactose intolerant.”

Heather reappeared, holding a lunchbox triumphantly. “All packed! Vegan nuggets and a juice box. See? Totally crushing it.”

Maxwell sighed. “Miss Biblow, I appreciate your… enthusiasm. Just make sure Gracie actually eats lunch this time, not her crayons.”

Heather giggled. “Oh, I love her creativity!”

“Mm,” Niles hummed. “Pity it isn’t contagious.”

Heather glared, clutching her smoothie tighter.

Maxwell knelt down beside Gracie, brushing a stray curl from her face. “Be good for Miss Biblow today, all right, darling?”

“I always am,” Gracie said. “It’s the world that’s weird.”

He smiled. “Can’t argue with that.” He stood, gathering his things, and nodded to Niles. “Shall we?”

As he headed toward the door, Maggie called after him, “You’re coming to my shoot tonight, right?”

“I’ll try,” he said automatically.

“You always try.”

He paused, guilt tugging at him. Trying had become his favorite way to fail. 

Before he could answer, Heather’s voice chimed up, and she squealed before hanging up the phone. “New audition! Oh, my God, this could be the one!”

Maxwell closed his eyes briefly. “Lovely. Just… try not to lose any of my children on your way there.”

As the front door closed behind him, Niles whispered, “You do realize, sir, that she will absolutely lose at least one of them.”

Maxwell rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Yes, but hopefully not before I find a replacement.” He adjusted his tie, stepping into the California sun, and slid into the waiting car. The glittering city stretched before him.

The agency’s office was a kaleidoscope of noise and caffeine. Phones rang, heels clicked, assistants scurried in panic, and somewhere in the corner, Yetta was trying to reach her canasta club on the phone. Or rather, on a banana that resembled a phone.

Fran crossed one leg over the other, stirring her iced coffee with a straw. Val had outdone herself that morning with big curls, winged eyeliner, and a lip color that could stop traffic (and probably had).

“Frannie, you’re radiating,” Yetta said, peering at her through a pair of rhinestone sunglasses she wore indoors. “If they don’t cast you, it’s ‘cause they’re jealous, or blind, or both.”

“Thanks, Yetta, but you’re not technically my agent anymore,” Fran reminded her, smiling.

“Don’t tell me how to live,” Yetta said, fluffing her grey hair. “Besides, I’ve been in this business longer than that boy with the fancy watch.”

She was. Back in her day, her grandma Yetta had been the agent, the one who represented all the big names in the industry, from sitcom icons and Broadway legends, all the way to that one magician who vanished mid-contract and never reappeared. 

Everyone knew her, though she could hardly remember half their names anymore. Now she spent her days calling in favors and advising Fran. If she wasn’t doing that, then she was most definitely telling the tale of how she once had tea with Barbra Streisand and how she met Sara Sheffield at a charity gala.

That boy with the fancy watch was, in fact, Fran’s actual agent, Lenny: mid-thirties, sleek suit, and the kind of Hollywood grin that said he could probably charm a cactus into signing a three-picture deal.

“Okay, ladies,” Lenny said, sliding into the conversation. “Sorry for the wait, had to put out a fire with a reality show contestant who thinks she’s allergic to lighting gels.”

Fran smirked. “Oh, I’ve heard worse.”

Lenny blinked. “Noted.”

Yetta cackled. “She has! Remember that guy who said he was a poet but only wrote restaurant reviews for the paper?”

Fran winced. “Let’s focus on the career, okay?”

“Right,” Lenny said, clearing his throat. “So, there’s something new I wanted to run by you.”

Fran perked up. “New? Oy, please tell me it’s not another commercial for cat litter.”

“Better.” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “It’s about that movie I told you about. The one going for a modern drama with a classic feel. The auditions are starting very soon.”

Fran’s eyebrows arched. “Finally, something with emotional depth and good lighting.”

Lenny laughed. “The role’s perfect for you, Fran. Charismatic, funny, a little messy but lovable. You’d be playing opposite a big name. Serious prestige. They haven’t cast the male lead yet, but the director’s very particular about his chemistry reads.”

Fran preened. “Well, good thing I have chemistry with literally everyone. Even the cashier at Ralph’s gave me extra strawberries this morning.”

“The director’s a bit intense, but brilliant,” Lenny continued.

“Oh, please. I can handle intense. I’ve dated worse.”

“Ha, well, good.” Lenny shuffled his notes. “He’s known for being… meticulous.”

Fran tilted her head, all teasing grin. “Translation: control freak?”

“Uh… you could say that,” Lenny admitted. “But he gets results. He’s coming to watch the auditions, actually.” He glanced down casually. “Maxwell Sheffield. You may have heard of him.”

The straw froze halfway to Fran’s lips. For half a heartbeat, her smile stalled. She set her coffee down with a delicate little clink. “Oh, sure,” she said, voice sugar-smooth. “The theater guy. British, serious, chronically allergic to fun?”

Lenny blinked. “Uh… yeah, that’s him.”

Yetta frowned. “Wasn’t he the one married to that pretty actress who got–”

“Yetta,” Fran cut in quickly, her voice just a hair too bright. “So!” She clapped her hands once. “What’s the timeline, Lenny?”

Lenny, oblivious, checked his notes. “Auditions are in two weeks. He’s directing and producing, so the chemistry read’s going to be important. He’s got a reputation for pushing his leads hard, really digging for authenticity.”

“Fabulous,” Fran said sweetly. “Tell him I’ll bring a shovel.”

Yetta squinted at her. “You don’t like him, Frannie?”

Fran waved her hand. “Please. I don’t even know him. Just… read about him. And by the sound of it, he could use a personality transfusion.”

Lenny grinned. “Well, opposites attract, right?”

Fran’s lipstick-curved smile was pure mischief. “Honey, if that were true, I’d be married to a tax accountant.”

Yetta smacked the table. “He’s British, right? Maybe you can finally get a man who says ‘darling’ before he ruins your life.”

Fran rolled her eyes. “I don’t care if he says ‘cheerio’ before he does it, I’m not interested in another man who thinks he’s the main character.” She sipped her coffee again, that practiced and poised smile steady now, but her reflection in the glass of the window caught her own eyes.

Suddenly, she didn’t look bored at all.

By the time Maxwell reached the Sheffield Pictures studio, the air already hummed with caffeine and ambition. Assistants darted through hallways clutching scripts, latte orders, and nerves; producers argued in low, expensive tones about “creative integrity” and “the budget’s emotional journey”.

He walked through it all with the ease of a man who had learned how to survive ruin. His office overlooked the city. He’d spent years chasing meaning instead of noise, but Hollywood, as he’d learned, had a way of turning even sincerity into a PR strategy.

“Maxwell!”

He turned, his expression softening slightly as he saw Marla Maples, head of production and his long-time efficient collaborator. “Marla,” he greeted, extending a hand before she pulled him into a brief, friendly hug.

“You look good,” she said. “Less brooding than usual.”

“I’m pacing myself,” he deadpanned.

She grinned, leading him toward the conference table where a stack of revised contracts waited. “So, before we dive into the paperwork, how are you feeling about the new film?”

He sat, tugging at his cufflinks. “Cautiously optimistic. The script is solid, the studio’s on board, and for once, I might even get through pre-production without wanting to move back to London.”

“High praise,” she said dryly, flipping through her notes. “Casting’s going to start soon, right?”

“Yes. I want to find the leads personally. Chemistry will make or break this one.”

Marla nodded, half-listening as she wrote something down. “Makes sense. Oh, speaking of casting, my husband mentioned that one of his clients might audition. Lenny, you’ve met him, haven’t you?”

Maxwell leaned back. “Yes, solid agent. Brings in good people.”

“He’s been talking about this project all week,” Marla said with a chuckle. “Says he’s got a client who’d be perfect for the female lead. Said she’s a strong personality, big following, very… magnetic. His words, not mine.”

Maxwell arched an eyebrow. “Magnetic can go either way.”

Marla smirked. “So can chemistry. But don’t worry, Lenny’s got good taste. He says she’s been through a few rough years, trying to reinvent herself. I think he’s excited to get her into something serious.”

Maxwell nodded absently, scanning the papers in front of him. “Name?”

“Hmm?”

“This actress of his.” He glanced up, expecting to hear some unfamiliar name from the endless parade of rising stars.

Marla looked at her notepad. “Let me check. Oh, right, here it is. Fran Fine.”

The pen in Maxwell’s hand stilled. For a fraction of a second, his body forgot what it was doing. He placed the pen down carefully, as if nothing at all had happened. “I see.”

Marla didn’t notice his slight pause. “You’ve heard of her, right? Big personality, a bit tabloid-heavy, but actually very talented. People forget she started in real acting before the gossip mill swallowed her.”

“Yes,” Maxwell said. “I’m aware.”

“Lenny says she’s got range. Funny, but she can pull off drama when it counts. Anyway, no pressure. She’s just considering the audition.”

Maxwell nodded once, polite but distant. “Of course.”

“Unless,” Marla teased, “you’ve got something against her?”

He looked up, expression unreadable. “Not at all. I just… prefer to work with people who take direction.”

“Ouch.” She laughed. “Well, don’t judge her until the audition.”

“Believe me,” he murmured, straightening his tie, “I never judge before the audition.”

Marla smiled and returned to her notes, blissfully unaware that Maxwell was no longer listening. His thoughts had drifted far from the table.

He straightened his spine and exhaled sharply, reaching for his coffee, finding it empty. “Right,” he said, facing the set assistant. “I need a drink.”

The boy narrowed his eyes at him. “It’s ten in the morning, sir.”

“Make it a large one.”

The afternoon light was merciless as Fran strutted down Melrose with her bodyguard lumbering a few paces behind, trying to keep up with her heels and her rapidly shifting mood. The meeting with Lenny had left her somewhere between exhilarated and nauseous, and she desperately needed air, caffeine, and a sign from the universe that life wasn’t about to implode.

She was halfway through convincing herself that a cappuccino counted as a sign when something small and surprisingly solid collided with her knees.

“Oh, my God!” Fran gasped, teetering in her heels before catching her balance. “Sweetie, are you okay?”

A little girl had fallen right at her feet, curls bouncing, a pink backpack slightly askew. Before the bodyguard could swoop in, Fran waved him off. “It’s fine, Tony, she’s, like, three apples tall. I can take her.”

The girl looked up, cheeks flushed. “Sorry! I was running to the building before she–” She stopped herself abruptly, biting her lip.

Fran crouched, her voice softening. “Before who, honey?”

The girl hesitated, then gave a tiny shrug. “Before… my nanny came back. I’m supposed to go to therapy here,” she said, nodding toward the building.

“Well, that sounds fancy,” Fran said, grinning. “I only go to therapy when they give me a discount.”

That earned a giggle. The sound was so pure it caught Fran off guard. She brushed an invisible speck of glitter off the kid’s sleeve. “You okay? Didn’t hurt your knee or anything?”

“I’m okay,” the girl said shyly, then peered up with a squint, studying Fran’s face. “Wait… I know you.”

Fran blinked, halfway to laughing. “You do?”

“You’re Fran Fine! From Heartbreak in High Heels! My daddy said it’s not for kids, but I watched it anyway.” She grinned proudly, all dimples and mischief.

Fran put a hand to her heart, genuinely touched. “Well, look at you, a little rebel and a cinephile. What’s your name, angel?”

“Gracie,” she said. “Well, Grace.”

“Gracie,” Fran repeated, drawing it out. “That’s got pizzazz. You keep that. And you tell your therapist she’s lucky to have such a smart little cookie.”

Gracie’s smile faltered. “You don’t think it’s weird? Going to therapy?”

Fran’s heart squeezed. “Oy, honey, weird is what keeps us interesting. Everyone should talk to someone. Some of us just do it into a microphone or a camera.”

That made Gracie beam again. She opened her mouth as if to say more, but then changed her mind, shaking her head. “Never mind,” she said, looking bashful. “I’m just really glad I met you.”

Fran straightened, brushing her skirt down, a fond smile tugging at her lips. “You and me both, doll. You take care, okay?”

Gracie nodded solemnly, then turned and skipped toward the building entrance, where a flustered receptionist rushed to meet her.

Fran lingered for a moment, watching the little girl disappear inside. There was a spark of sweetness around her, a strange familiarity she couldn’t place. She couldn’t quite shake the feeling that she’d just bumped into her own destiny wearing pink sneakers.

The glass door swung shut behind Maxwell with a decisive click. He exhaled through his nose, loosening his tie. He’d survived another production meeting, his head still buzzing with numbers, schedules, and one very unwelcome name that refused to leave his mind.

“Rough morning?” The voice floated in from the corner, smooth as silk and twice as expensive.

C.C. Babcock was perched on the edge of his chair, one leg crossed over the other, a notepad in her hand, the faintest smirk curving her mouth. Her heels were so sharp they could’ve punctured the ego of any studio executive in the building, and yet somehow, she’d never once slipped in them.

Maxwell didn’t even look up as he adjusted his tie. “Do you make a habit of lurking outside meetings, C.C., or am I just especially lucky today?”

“Only when the meetings end with you looking like you’ve seen a ghost,” she replied. “Or worse, an actress.”

He stopped dead. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, don’t play coy. Word travels faster than your patience. I just got an alert from PR that Fran Fine, America’s favorite scandal magnet, might be up for a comeback.” Her voice was dripping with amused disbelief. “And coincidentally, you’re casting for a leading lady. According to Marla’s husband, she might consider the audition.”

He stared at her, jaw tight. “Coincidentally, indeed.”

She glanced up, eyes glinting. “Maxwell, please tell me you’re not actually considering her. She’s a walking headline in heels. Half of my job would be cleaning up the mess she leaves behind, and the other half would be convincing you not to strangle her on set.”

“I’m not considering her,” he said flatly. “And if there’s a God, she isn’t considering me either.”

“It would be a PR nightmare wrapped in a red dress,” she snapped. “Maxwell, if she auditions, I will have to build an entire war room. You remember her last public breakup? The infamous lemon pie incident? They’re still cleaning up the mess from that one.”

“I’m not considering her,” he repeated, irritation edging in.

“Well, good. Try to remember that.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Remind me to cut your bonus.”

“Try it,” she said sweetly. “You’d cry without me.”

She slid off the chair, gathering her notes with precision. When she reached the door, she turned back, voice lower now, almost sincere. “Just… be careful, Maxwell. You’ve rebuilt a lot since London. Don’t let one actress, even a famous catastrophe one, drag you back into the fire.” Then she was gone, heels slicing down the hallway.

Maxwell stood there alone, surrounded by silence, ghosts, and a name like a bruise he kept pressing.

Fran Fine.

Of all the people in Los Angeles, she was the one he least wanted in his orbit.

Somehow, that felt like fate laughing.

The dressing room looked like the Chanel factory itself. Clothes were scattered everywhere, safety pins clung to life, and hair spray swirled in the air, thick enough to qualify as weather. Fran sat in the chair, spine stiff, eyes glassy with terror only a pre-interview beauty crisis can summon.

Across from her stood Steve, a stylist so famous for his “vision” that no one dared ask why his last five clients cried on camera. 

He held up a dress against her body. “This,” he declared, “is elegance.”

Fran stared at the dress. It was beige. “I look like a breadstick,” she said flatly.

Steve gasped, offended. “You look refined.”

“I look like I’m attending my own tax audit.”

He rolled his eyes. “Fran, subtlety is in. Minimalism is in. Understated is in.”

“I’m not understated!” she cried, gesturing wildly and immediately knocking over a bottle of hair gel. “My whole personality is noise and glitter! People come to see me because they know I’ll blind them with sparkles!”

“Exactly!” Steve shot back. “And that’s the problem. The producers said we should ‘tone you down’ for this interview. Make you look more… serious.”

Her heart lurched. That old familiar sting. She swallowed. “Oh, so now I gotta be serious to be taken seriously, is that it?”

Steve didn’t look up. “Well–”

“Oh, my God, do I need to show up in rags and whisper the whole interview? Would that help? Should I pretend I’m a towel?”

He sighed, clearly wanting neither honesty nor conflict. “Fran, the networks are twitchy about your… aura.”

“Aura? Aura?!” She slapped a hand on her chest. “What, is it too leopard-print? Too sparkly? Too full of personality?”

“Too scandalous,” he said gently.

Everything in her went still. She blinked, her smile shrinking by half. “Oh,” she said softly. “So this is about Danny.”

Steve winced. “It’s not just Danny.”

“Right,” she said, staring hard into the mirror. “It’s Heather. And the tabloids. And the talk show host last week who asked me if my accent was a publicity stunt.”

Her throat tightened. God, she hated feeling this raw under the bright vanity lights. “Oy, I’m tired,” she admitted in a small, cracked voice. “I am so tired of being treated like the punchline instead of the person.”

Steve’s expression softened. “Fran…”

But she was already blinking away the emotion, snapping her spine straight, wiping under her eyes with the underside of her palm. “Nope! Nope, nope. No crying. My mascara costs more than my car insurance.”

Steve cleared his throat. “Let’s try the black dress instead?”

“Oh, honey,” she breathed. “Color!”

He handed it to her, and she stepped into it, only for the zipper to scream.

“Steve,” she said through clenched teeth, “why is the zipper crying?”

“Because you’re tense.”

“I’m tense because you put me in a beige coffin five minutes ago.”

He yanked harder, and she yelped. 

A button went flying, ricocheting through the room.

“Oh, my God,” she shouted. “That almost took out my eye! Imagine the headlines: ‘Fallen Star Blinded by Discount Fastener’.”

“It wasn’t discount–”

“Do not start with me, mister.”

A knock came at the dressing room door and a frazzled assistant poked her head in. “Miss Fine? The host wants to know if you’re… um… ready?”

Fran inhaled sharply, but stood tall. “Tell him,” she said, fluffing her hair, “that I was born ready, raised ready, and currently being suffocated.”

The assistant vanished.

Fran turned back to the mirror. Her reflection looked startled, exhausted, and determined. “Steve,” she murmured, “give me the lipstick. The red one.”

He handed it to her. 

She applied it with a steady hand and a wicked smirk. “There,” she said softly. “Now I look like myself again.” She met her own eyes, and for just a second, the fear slid away.

She flicked her hair. “Let’s go charm the nation.”

The warehouse-turned-studio glowed under a crown of softbox lights, every metallic surface washed in honey. Assistants darted around, stylists whispered frantically, and someone argued about the tragic fate of a feathered collar. 

Right in the middle of it all, Maggie Sheffield stood absolutely radiant. She wasn’t posing so much as floating in her long blue dress made of layered chiffon that shimmered when she breathed. Chloe, her mentor, hovered at her side, adjusting the angle of Maggie’s chin with gentle precision.

“You’re a natural,” Chloe said, stepping back. “Own the space. Let the camera want you.”

Maggie smiled, shy but proud. She did what Chloe taught her: shoulders soft and eyes bright. Still, every few seconds she flicked her gaze toward the entrance.

He promised he’d come. He always promised.

And he was always late.

The photographer lifted his camera. “All right, Maggie, let’s take a few more before we lose the light–”

The studio door slammed open. In walked Maxwell in a whirlwind of coat, briefcase, and mild British panic, breathlessly apologizing to people who were only staring because he looked like someone who didn’t belong on a runway but still owned the entire room.

“Sorry! Terribly sorry… traffic, deadlines, unexpected… everything–” He spotted her and froze. “Margaret.”

Her shoulders dropped in relief, the softness unmistakable even from across the chaos. “Dad. You made it.”

He attempted to smooth his hair, but it only made his curls worse. “Of course I did. I… ah… I said I would.” He adjusted his tie, only then noticing it wasn’t even on properly. He tugged it off, stuffed it into his pocket, and pretended that had been the plan all along.

Chloe approached with a knowing smile. “You arrived just in time for the final set.”

Maxwell nodded gratefully. “Good, good. I wouldn’t miss it.” His voice softened as he turned back to Maggie. “You look… extraordinary.”

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks flushed pink. “Dad, it’s just a photoshoot.”

“It’s not.”

A shy exhale slipped from her. “Thanks. I, um… I wasn’t sure about the dress. It’s kind of… a lot.”

“It’s perfect,” he said.

She fidgeted with one of the adjustable straps. “Are you sure it’s not too… grown-up? I don’t want people to think I’m trying too hard.”

Maxwell stepped closer, voice softening. “Sweetheart, you’re not trying too hard. You’re growing up. And you’re doing it beautifully.”

She swallowed. “Yeah. I just… I hope I don’t look silly.”

“You don’t,” he assured. “You look confident.”

Maggie smiled at that, small but sincere. “I’m working on that part.”

The photographer called out again. “Positions!”

Maggie hurried back under the lights, doing her best to hide how her entire posture had shifted, turning brighter, simply because her father finally arrived.

Maxwell lingered at the edge of the set, watching her. Pride tangled in a thread of fear. He loved her too much to clip her wings and feared loving her wasn’t enough to keep her safe.

Chloe sidled up beside him. “She’s good, you know.”

“I’m aware,” he murmured, eyes softening.

“And she listens to you,” Chloe added. “Even when she pretends not to.”

He huffed a breath. “Yes, well. That makes one person on my payroll.”

Chloe smirked. “And she’s the only one you can’t fire.”

Maxwell chuckled quietly. For a moment, the tension in him unwound. When Maggie glanced toward him between shots, he lifted a hand in a little, proud wave.

He stopped dead the moment he saw her under the lights again. She looked so much like Sara that he swore the air thinned around him. The tilt of her chin, the earnest curve of her smile, the way she pushed through nerves with sheer stubborn sweetness hit him like a knife and a kiss at the same time.

He disliked the idea of cameras pointed at any of his children, hated the spotlight, the scrutiny, and the danger it brought. His stomach twisted, his hands clenched in his pockets, and that choking fear clawed up again.

This wasn’t what she should’ve been doing. God, the cameras, the eyes, the pressure… He was terrified of it. He lost someone he loved to this industry, and there it was again, swallowing his daughter whole one flash at a time.

He nearly stormed onto the floor to drag her out by the elbow as if she was still eight, not eighteen.

So caught up in the panic movie playing in his head, he barely registered the cluster of assistants passing behind him, until the words drifted in:

“Did you see that photoshoot earlier today?”

“Oh, my God, the Fran Fine one? She was insane, in the best way.”

“Right? I swear she was flirting with the photographer.”

Maxwell’s entire expression went from worried father to exasperated producer in zero seconds flat. He closed his eyes, counting to three, and rolled his eyes hard.

Of course she had a photoshoot today. Of course the universe insisted on throwing her name at him everywhere he went.

He grumbled under his breath, “Marvelous. That woman is multiplying.”

One of the assistants glanced at him in confusion, but Maxwell was already staring back at Maggie, caught somewhere between love, fear, and the deep, never-ending annoyance that life kept insisting he cross paths with Fran Fine, who was a walking and talking glitter grenade.

The bar was one of those dim, cozy Hollywood hideaways where the lighting was flattering, the cocktails were overpriced, and half the clientele was pretending they were “just taking time off between projects”.

Fran slumped into the velvet booth.

Val slid in across from her, practically vibrating with excitement. “Okay, spill! Start talking! Begin the spilling!”

Fran dropped the magazine mockup onto the table.

Val snatched it. “Oh, my God.”

Fran winced. “Here we go.”

“Oh. My. God.” Val gasped so loudly that the bartender ducked. “This is… you’re… Fran! You’re the cover girl! You’re a glamorous panther who could ruin someone’s life with just her cheekbones!”

“I mean… that part I like,” Fran said with a weak shrug.

Val slapped her hands down on the table. “Then why do you look like someone just told you shoulder pads are back?”

Fran groaned, shoving her face into her hands. “Because I had a day, Val. Steve tried putting me in beige. Beige, Val. And then the talk show people wanted me to be ‘serious’, and then the rumors got involved, and suddenly everyone thinks I’m, like… I don’t know… radioactive.”

Val blinked. “Okay, back up. Why would anyone think you’re radioactive? You moisturize.”

“No, I mean my career,” Fran said, slumping deeper. “I get one tiny scandal and suddenly I’m the Hollywood Disaster.”

“Oh, please,” Val said, waving that off. “Everyone in this city has scandals. They’re like… sunlight.” She squinted. “Or Botox.”

Fran let out a snort. She twirled her straw. “I just… I don’t want people to think I’m some untalented pretty thing who only gets by on glitter and dumb luck.”

Val softened. “Honey, you’ve always been more than that.”

Fran’s eyes got shiny, but she blinked it away.

Val leaned in. “Besides… I know why you’re spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling,” Fran said, spiraling.

Val lifted a brow. “Mm-hmm. So the movie audition doesn’t bother you at all?”

Fran tensed. “What movie audition?”

Val slid the magazine closer, tapping her nail against the edge of the page. “The role your agent told you about.”

Fran sucked her drink down. “Val, come on. Be serious.”

“Fran, this role could be huge for you.”

“I don’t wanna work with him.” The words surprised her with how true they felt.

Val blinked. “Who?”

“Maxwell Sheffield.”

Val’s jaw dropped so hard it nearly hit the appetizer menu. “What? Why? He’s a genius.”

Fran made a face. “Oy, genug already. He is the most uptight man in the country.”

Val gasped. “Don’t you talk about him like that.”

Fran pressed a hand to her chest dramatically. “I’m sorry, I forgot he was your personal religion.”

“He is!” Val insisted. “He’s brilliant! He’s legendary!”

Fran stared. “His last movie had a scene so boring I had to check my pulse.”

“That was subtle storytelling.”

“It was a man staring out a window for five minutes.”

“He was grieving!”

“He was bored!”

Val huffed. “Well, maybe you just don’t appreciate art.”

“You’re right, Val. I don’t appreciate art. That’s why I’m on the cover of a magazine. Meanwhile, his entire job is telling actors to ‘stand slightly to the left’.”

Val pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to physically hold in her fangirling. “Fran. You don’t understand! This is Maxwell Sheffield. People dream of working with him.”

“Yeah, well, I dream of sleeping,” Fran muttered. “And also not being murdered by a producer’s glare.”

Val leaned forward. “He does not glare.”

“He glares!”

Val made a wounded noise. “He’s a national treasure.”

“He’s a national migraine.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“And you,” Fran snapped, “oy, you are being brainwashed by his British tuchus and that stupid accent!”

Val inhaled sharply. “It’s not stupid. It’s classy and soothing. Like tea you can listen to.”

Fran waved that off. “Oh, please.”

Val gave her a look. “He’s the guy half of Hollywood is drooling over.”

“Well, I’m not drooling.”

“Yeah, and you’re the only one.”

Fran rolled her eyes.

“I’m just being supportive.”

“You’re being delusional.”

“And you’re being scared.”

Fran froze mid-eye-roll.

Val shrugged gently. “Fran, just… read the script.”

Fran fidgeted. “But what if I–”

“Then you’ll get up, put on another sparkly outfit, and go terrorize someone else,” Val said simply. “Because that’s who you are.”

Fran blinked at her. “Val…”

“Worst case? You hate the script and throw it onto the roof again like last time.”

Fran groaned. “I told ya, that was one time and the wind was very powerful.”

Val smiled warmly. “Just read it. You owe yourself that.”

Something in Fran’s chest softened. She reached across the table, squeezing Val’s hand. “You’re a good friend.”

“Obviously. I’m fabulous.” Val winked. “And the day you chicken out of something this big, I’ll personally drag you to the audition by your hairspray.”

Fran laughed. “Fine.” She sighed. “I’ll read it.”

Val’s grin lit up the whole booth. “That’s my star.”

Fran leaned back, exhaling. For the first time all day, the fear quieted.

Maggie practically bounced off the set the second the photographer called it a wrap. She was still glowing under the lights, cheeks rosy, hair slightly mussed. When she saw her father nearby, she lit up.

“Dad!” She barreled into him, arms flung around his waist, nearly knocking him off balance.

He steadied her, smoothing her hair with this soft, unconscious tenderness, even as his heart still pounded with leftover fear. “Darling, you were wonderful,” he managed, voice tight with pride and anxiety wrestling for dominance.

She pulled back, eyes sparkling, and he already knew he was doomed. “So guess what,” she said, practically vibrating. “Remember the magazine that called me a few months ago? Esquire? The big one? The one I said would change everything?”

Maxwell swallowed. “Yes…?”

“They’re putting me on their cover.” Her smile was so bright it could have powered the studio lights.

“That’s… that’s wonderful, sweetheart.” It really, truly was. It just also made him want to lie down on the floor and breathe into a paper bag.

“But that’s not even the best part!” she said, digging into her bag. “They gave me the current issue to show me their style. Look, this is the magazine I’ll be on in a few months!”

She handed it to him with triumphant flair.

He took it, looked down, and froze. Staring back at him from the front cover with one manicured hand on her hip, hair blowing in a dramatic wind that absolutely did not exist indoors, lips glossy and smirking like she knew all his secrets…

Fran. Bloody. Fine.

She was in some borderline ridiculous pink outfit that should have not worked and yet somehow did.

Maxwell inhaled sharply through his nose.

Maggie peered at him. “Dad? You okay?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes… yes, quite.” He muttered, barely audible, “Of course it’s her. Why wouldn’t it be her? Naturally. Perfectly reasonable. Why not haunt me in print as well.”

Maggie, oblivious to his emotional collapse, beamed. “Isn’t she gorgeous?”

Maxwell closed his eyes, silently begging any deity listening for strength. “She’s… something.”

The magazine smirked at him. 

Maggie looped her arm through his, dragging him toward the exit, chattering about poses, wardrobe, and how she’s thinking soft waves or maybe sleek hair for her own cover.

Maxwell followed, still clutching the magazine, because he loved his daughter more than he feared anything else. For his sanity, though, he hoped the next issue featured literally anyone else on the cover.

Fran shoved her front door shut with her hip, kicked off her heels, and immediately collapsed onto the couch.

She tossed her bag aside, pulled out the thick stack of papers Lenny had given her earlier, and flopped backward dramatically. “Audition material, my tuchus,” she muttered, riffling through the pages. “This is like doing homework for a grade I don’t even get a degree out of.”

The second she read the first line of dialogue, she froze. It was good. Sharp, emotional, funny without trying, and the kind of script she hadn’t touched in years. Her breath hitched.

Then she reached the bottom of the page.

Directed by: Maxwell Sheffield

Produced by: Maxwell Sheffield

Her face dropped into a deadpan glare. “Oh, boy, not him again.” She ripped the title page off, the one that only had his name alongside the movie title. Just that smug, elegant lettering, irritating her on sight.

She marched into the kitchen, grabbed the candle she used mostly for ambience (and occasionally to pretend she meditated), struck a match, and lit it.

The warm flicker glowed against her face as she held the page above it. “Let’s see how Mr. Fancy Accent likes this.”

The flame caught quickly, curling the edges inward. His name burned first. Of course it did. The man always took up too much space.

She watched until the page crumbled to blackened flakes between her fingers, then dusted the remains into the sink. “Good riddance.”

She blew out the match, the smoke twirling upward as if it were a secret she wasn’t ready to admit.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and Maxwell stepped into the parking garage with Maggie, embracing the cool, echoing silence after a morning full of voices he didn’t want to hear.

He crossed the concrete floor with long and clipped strides, the magazine still rolled tight in his fist.

They reached his limo, and the driver opened the door for Maggie, ushering her in. Maxwell stopped by the trunk and stared down at the glossy page.

Her eyes sparkled up at him, taunting and dangerous.

Maxwell exhaled sharply through his nose. “Absolutely not.” He turned, walking to the nearest metal trash bin, and dropped the magazine inside. It landed with a slap, her face still visible through the mesh.

He should’ve walked away. 

Instead, he reached into his coat pocket.

His lighter clicked open, and the metallic sound echoed louder than it should’ve. It was a habit he’d broken years ago. One he only slipped into when he was restless, undone, or thinking about things he shouldn’t.

The flame rose, small but steady.

Maxwell hesitated for a second before he touched the fire to the corner of the page.

Her hair curled black first, her smile dissolved, and her eyes vanished in smoke.

He didn’t look away once.

When the flame reached his fingers, he flicked the lighter closed and stepped back, watching the last of her image shrivel into ash. “Goodbye,” he muttered, but it didn’t sound convincing. Some things didn’t leave just because you told them to.

The smoke curled upward as if it were a question he refused to answer.

By the time the sun went down, Fran’s living room looked like the aftermath of an emotional garage sale. The coffee table was buried under open magazines: Variety, Esquire, People. Every single one of them had the same familiar face between the pages: one eyebrow arched, a black suit, and a smile so faint it was practically non-existent.

Maxwell Sheffield.

She jabbed her spoon into a pint of rocky road ice cream. “Oh, please.” She squinted at one particularly moody black-and-white photo. “Like no one ever directed a movie before you, Mr. Broody Shakespeare.”

She flipped the magazine closed with a dramatic snap. “‘A visionary force in modern cinema’,” she read off the headline, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’ll show you a visionary force, pal.”

Her dog, Chester, a fluffy little furball, blinked up at her from the couch cushion, unimpressed.

“I mean, look at this,” she went on, gesturing wildly. “Every picture of him looks like he’s remembering a war only he fought. Has the man ever smiled?”

Chester yawned.

“Yeah, exactly!” Fran sighed, sinking into the couch.

The script lay open beside her, pages highlighted, corners bent, evidence of a battle she was losing.

Because she loved it.

She hated how much she loved the wit, the rhythm, and the ache of it. It was raw, funny, and heartbreakingly alive. Every line felt like something she’d lived but never said out loud.

Flipping another page, she chewed on her spoon. “Of course it’s brilliant,” she muttered. “Of course the grumpy Brit has to go and make something perfect.”

Her reflection in the dark TV screen caught her eye: messy bun, faded pajama top, and a smudge of lipstick still clinging stubbornly to the corner of her mouth. It was the cruel image of a woman who’d built her life around spotlights and applause and somehow still ended up talking to her dog.

Chester’s tail thumped once, traitorously supportive.

“This is ridiculous,” she said to no one in particular as she stood up, pacing now. “I’m not doing it. I refuse to put myself through another man’s therapy session disguised as art.”

She made it three steps before turning around. “But it’s so good, Chesty,” she groaned, clutching the script to her chest. “Why is it so good?!”

Chester blinked up at her.

Fran pointed at him. “Don’t ya start. You didn’t read Act Two.” She sat again, eyes scanning the last page she’d marked. There it was again, a line that hit her square in the chest:

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is let someone see you try again.

Fran stared at it for a long moment, her throat tightening in spite of herself. “Try again,” she whispered. “Yeah, right.” 

She reached for her phone, hesitating, then picked it up anyway. “This is a terrible idea,” she told Chester.

He didn’t respond. Of course.

Fran sighed, waiting for her agent to pick up. “Lenny?” she said when he answered. “I’ll come to the audition. Tell your British control freak not to get used to me taking direction.”

She hung up before he could respond, dropping her head back against the couch, and let out a groan that turned into a laugh.

“What did I just get myself into?”