"You'll never be the only woman in this room," Flynn says.
I push the bedroom door open and stop.
Ariel's knee is against Flynn's thigh. Her hair is a mess of studio curls and mascara. Flynn's shirt is crumpled under his arm. The bed is a mess of hotel sheets even though this room is mine, and the moonlight is painting them the same lie he told me for months.
Ariel tilts her head and smiles like she won something.
"Keep your hands to yourself," I say.
Ariel's smile freezes. She sits up slow, like she's surprised I'm moving, like she expected the door to stay closed.
Flynn pulls the sheet up faster than the speed of common decency. "Kaelyn, this is—"
"Right," I cut in. "This is exactly what it looks like."
Ariel stands, buttoning a borrowed blouse. "I didn't know—"
"You didn't know," I repeat. "You were guest-starring in my marriage."
Her eyes flash. "That's low."
"You're the one in my bed," I say. "Taking royalties on a private life. Low doesn't cover the sentence."
Ariel's face flushes. She steps toward me like she's about to lecture. She opens her mouth and the line is sharp and rehearsed, the kind of line that gets applause on camera.
"You don't have to make this a scene—"
"This is already a scene," I say. "You're on stage. Flynn's always been good at
