"Slap!" "Cut!" someone yells, but the word blurs with the sound on my skin. "Action was perfect—" the director starts, then stops when I don't move. "Khloe?" a crew voice calls. "Khloe, you okay?" I slide into a dark, fast flash: champagne, screaming cameras, a small stage, the word winner behind me, a man's hand on my back, his voice low and close saying, "Not tonight." Then nothing. "What year is it?" I say. My voice comes out small and wrong. "Khloe—" Fiona's voice, sharp. "You're bleeding. Here, sit down." "Is she—" an extra asks. "Is this part of the take?" "No," says June Warren from across the set, voice smooth. "We cut. We always cut." "You're not getting a meltdown on my watch," An Stone barks. "People, clear the set." Hands pry at my shoulders. Bright lights stab at my eyes. My cheek tastes metallic. "Khloe, stay with me," Fiona orders. She pulls me off the crate and guides me behind a lighting rig like she's moving a person who matters more than the shot. "Think, Khloe," I tell myself. One breath. Remember where you are. Remember what you can use. "Fiona," I say, and somehow my smile is steady. "Did you bring the tea I like?" She freezes. Then her body unclenches. "Get a medic," someone else says. "No medic," Fiona snaps. "Just—sit still. Tell me what hurt." "Just my face," I say. "Just a slap." "You fainted," Fiona says, like