“They asked me to be a prop tonight,” Iris hissed as the black SUV surged through Harbor City lights. “Just don’t give them the scandal they want.”
“You mean don’t be myself?” Emilie clipped, thumb scrolling the guest list on her phone. Flashbulbs stitched white lines across the leather window.
“Don’t start a fight. Don’t kiss a rival. Don’t spill a drink on a sponsor. Don’t cry on camera.” Iris’s voice stayed flat, the way a well-practiced fixer lists demands. “Act natural. That’s your job.”
Emilie looked down at the list. Gideon Bass—presenter. Francesca Cooke—table nine. Fabian Giordano—table five. Nico Alvarado—performing after the show. “Gideon’s coming,” she said.
Iris paused a second too long. “Of course he’s coming. He always comes when it matters.”
“You think he comes for the awards or for the headlines?” Emilie asked.
“I think he comes because nobody else remembers how to be dangerous on purpose,” Iris answered. “And he likes a crowd that doubts him.”
“Then let him doubt,” Emilie said. She kept her tone even. “I’m not hiding.”
Iris shut the phone and faced her. “You’re not hiding, you’re walking into a room wired for a rumor. If you want to keep working, play the crowd. Not the story.”
Emilie’s smile was quick and clean. “Then I’ll give them a performance they can’t edit into a villain.”
They arrived at Summit Theatre
