More Than Anything

It was time to pose with my co-stars, a few more pictures. There was a tall, dark-haired man in the crowd. My gaze zipped to him, my heart stopping for one moment with wild, uncontrollable hope.

Braden.

His name slipped into my mind, through all my armor, and with it came painful memories and crippling hurt.

It wasn’t Braden in the crowd, of course. The man actually looked nothing like him. I turned my gaze away, fixing the momentary lapse in my smile

Someone put an arm around my waist.

“Have I told you how good you look tonight?” said Guy Fletcher, my co-star and rumored lover. He loved women, and with his classic good looks and sexy British accent, they flocked to him like bees to pollen. He unapologetically fueled the rumors that we were dating.

To him, it was all about his star credentials, and it made him look like more of a big deal when the whole world thought he was sleeping with me. The fans loved it too, so he and his management team made hints and encouraged the Guylie shippers. It pissed me off to no end.

“You have.” My voice was tight.

“Well, let me say it again,” he said smoothly, his words clipped and precise in the way that made the fans swoon. He let his hand linger on my shoulder. “You look perfect.”

“Thanks, Guy. You look good too, but I’m sure you already know that.”

He laughed. “I do.”

There was a tiny white Band-Aid on his forehead where he’d gotten injured during our last week on set, a fight scene filmed while hanging off the roof of a skyscraper in Abu Dhabi. I lifted a finger to touch it.

“How’s your head?” I asked, concerned.

He caught my hand and kissed it. “I love that you care.”

Ugh, I thought, hearing the audible swoon from the crowd. I stepped away from Guy’s arm as he placed another kiss on my cheek, took a few steps, and smiled again at another camera, then another. Then I closed my eyes as everything began to spin. Someone shouted a warning, and when I opened my eyes again, the carpet was coming straight for my face.

What a Merry Christmas, I thought wryly, just before the impact, and then everything went blissfully black.

I woke up in a dimly lit hospital room, my head pounding and my throat dry. There were flowers on a table near the bed, and their scent hung heavy in the air.

A clear tube was attached to my arm, and I groaned, remembering the moment I’d collapsed on the red carpet. The tabloids would have a field day, the entertainment news would run the video on a loop, and there were probably memes already spreading around on social media.

A nurse came into the room.

“You’re awake,” she said pleasantly. “You were out for a whole night and day.” She poured a glass of water from a jug and handed it to me.

I took it gratefully, drowning my thirst with the cold liquid.

She checked my vitals. “You’re okay,” she said reassuringly. “You were just exhausted. What you need is to take it easy and rest.”

“I know that,” I groaned.

She gave me a concerned glance. “Well, I’ll get the doctor.”

She repeated much of what the nurse had said, words like chronic exhaustion, stress, dehydration, rest, and so on until I was feeling drowsy again.

“Thankfully, you didn’t break your nose when you fell,” she finished. “A couple of people were worried you’d ruin your face.”

I thought about that later—my face, the most critical part of the product that was Allie Gilbert. Sometimes, I hated it, and it made me feel guilty because I knew how lucky I was compared to others.

I slept again, and when I woke, they transferred some of my calls. My parents had phoned from Haiti, where they’d taken a break from their busy, lifesaving work to check on me. They’d been reassured that I was fine, and now they lectured me about getting enough rest.

A short while later, I got another call from Celine Rhodes, Braden’s mother.

“I’ve been so worried about you, dear.”