"Justine, smile for the table," Penn whispered as camera flashes popped. "Do not glare at the photographer," he added. He shoved a champagne flute into her hand like a prop. "Penn, breathe," she mouthed. Her smile was practiced; her jaw was not. "You're selling nostalgia tonight," Penn said. "Sell it with warmth, not pity." "Warmth," she repeated, testing the word on her tongue. She stepped toward the table where producers clustered, badges like tiny stakes. "Ms. Mori," a producer said, leaning forward. "We loved your old work. There's a director who—" "Tell me his name," Justine cut in, voice soft. "He has a small role in a streaming pilot. Nothing big yet, but he remembers you." "That's enough," she said. "Keep me on the list." "Can't be on the list if you don't show up," Penn muttered. He guided her to an empty seat and planted his elbows on the table like a shield. "You're back," someone at the table said. "We thought you were finished." "People say a lot when cameras aren't on them," she replied. Her laugh was a touch too bright. Cameras loved a comeback. "You're brave," a young investor said. "Come into my office next week. Talent like you could shift a niche demo." "Next week," she repeated. "I'll be there." "She'll be there," Penn said for the room, louder than necessary. He winked at a middle-aged agent who'd been avoiding eye contact. The