The taxi smelled of stale pine air freshener and old vinyl. Cara sat in the back, watching the blurred lights of the tunnel whip by. Her hands were shaking in her lap. Not from cold, but from adrenaline.

They pulled up to a screening room in Tribeca. It wasn't the main theater. It was a side venue, small and intimate. The marquee simply read: White Poplar - Private Screening.

She paid the driver with cash. Every bill she handed over was money she had earned, not money Brittain had given her.

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of popcorn and expensive perfume. The final scene of the rough cut faded to black. As she slipped into the back of the room, silence hung heavy for a heartbeat. Then, applause broke out. It started scattered, then grew into a wave.

She saw people wiping their eyes. She saw a critic from the Times nodding his head.

Zack appeared at her elbow. His face was flushed.

"Did you hear that?" he hissed, gripping her arm. "They love it. You're not just a pretty face anymore, Cara. You're an asset."

She pulled her arm away. "I need air."

They walked to the green room. Zack was scrolling through his phone.

"Twitter is talking," he said. "They are calling your performance 'haunting.' We need to capitalize on this. Brady Roy is game."

"Brady?" she asked. Her co-star.

Zack nodded. "A showmance. You two look good together. The press loves a co-star romance. It sells tickets."

"I can't," she said. "The NDA. Brittain will sue me if I date publicly."

Zack rolled his eyes. "It's a PR stunt, Cara. Brittain is in London. He doesn't care what you do as long as you're quiet about him. Besides, don't you want to be famous for something other than being Austin's shadow?" The NDA was ironclad, but a public lawsuit would expose the very reason he hired her: as a stand-in for Caryn Newman. The press would have a field day with that. It was a risk, but it was a calculated one.

The question landed like a punch. She didn't answer. She needed to do some ADR work in the studio down the hall.

She walked toward the sound booth. The corridor was narrow. A group of people was coming the other way, laughing loudly. In the center was Hali Moody.

Hali stopped when she saw Cara. She was wearing a dress that cost more than Cara's father's house. Her eyes raked over Cara's outfit-a simple black dress Cara bought on sale.

"Well, look who it is," Hali said. Her voice was like syrup laced with arsenic. "The Muse. Did Brittain let you off the leash for the night?"

Cara tightened her jaw. She tried to step around Hali.

Hali moved to block her. She held a latte in her hand. With a flick of her wrist that looked accidental but definitely wasn't, the cup tilted. Brown liquid splashed over Cara's shoes. The heat seeped through the leather, burning her skin.

"Oops," Hali said. She didn't look sorry. She looked delighted.

Cara's hands curled into fists at her sides. She wanted to scream. She wanted to grab Hali by her extensions and drag her through the coffee. But she couldn't. Not yet.

"I'm sorry," Cara said. The words tasted like ash.

Hali laughed. It was a sharp, grating sound. "I heard Caryn is back in town," she whispered, leaning close. "Better pack your bags, sweetie. The lease is up."

She walked away, her entourage trailing behind her like ducklings. Cara stood there, staring at the brown stain on her shoe. Her toes were sticky. Her pride was stinging.

She walked into the sound booth. The director, Mark, was waiting.

"We need the scream," Mark said. "The scene where she finds out he's gone. Give me everything you have."

Cara put on the headphones. She closed her eyes. She didn't think about the movie. She thought about Hali's laugh. She thought about Brittain's cold eyes. She thought about the two years she spent erasing herself to fit into his world.

"Action."

She opened her mouth and let it out. It wasn't acting. It was a primal, guttural roar that tore through her throat. It was the sound of a woman breaking out of a cage.

When she stopped, the room was dead silent. Her chest was heaving. Her throat felt raw.

Mark stared at her through the glass. Holy shit, he mouthed.

Cara took off the headphones. She wiped a single tear from her cheek. It was hot and real.

Her phone buzzed. It was Brady.

We crushed it, partner.

She looked at the message. She looked at the coffee stain on her shoe. If she played by the rules, she got stepped on. If she broke the rules, maybe she could win.

She texted Zack.

Tell me more about the plan with Brady.

Then another text came in. It was Burrel, Brittain's assistant.

Mr. Austin wants to know if you are behaving this week.

She stared at the screen. She didn't reply. She stepped over the coffee stain on the floor and walked out the door.

The coffee shop was tucked away in the West Village, dark and smelling of roasted beans. Cara sat in a booth with Zack, going over the timeline for the fake romance rollout.

Suddenly, the bell above the door jingled aggressively. Cara looked up. Hali Moody walked in. She wasn't alone. She had two of her minions with her. She scanned the room, locked eyes with Cara, and marched over.

She didn't say hello. She slammed an iPad onto the table. The screen was bright, illuminating the dim corner.

"Thought you should see this," Hali said. "Since you clearly don't check the news."

Cara looked down. It was a photo. High resolution. Paparazzi style.

The location tag said JFK International Airport.

In the center of the frame was Brittain. He was wearing his signature charcoal coat. But he wasn't looking at his phone. He was looking at the woman next to him.

Caryn Newman.

She looked fragile. She was wearing white-she still insisted on that. Brittain's hand was resting on the small of her back. It was a protective gesture. A possessive gesture. It was the way a man touches something precious. He had never touched Cara like that in public. With Cara, he walked a step ahead. With Caryn, he was a shield.

Cara's stomach dropped. It felt like she had swallowed a stone.

"Looks like your contract is expired," Hali sneered. "The placeholder is officially retired."

Zack started to stand up. "Hey, watch it-"

Cara put a hand on Zack's arm to stop him. Her fingers were cold. She kept her face completely blank. She had practiced this face for two years.

"Thanks for the update, Hali," Cara said. Her voice was steady, boring even. "Saves me the trouble of refreshing my feed."

Hali blinked. She wanted tears. She wanted a scene. When she didn't get it, she snatched the iPad back.

"You're pathetic," she spat, and turned on her heel.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Cara crumbled. Her shoulders slumped. She grabbed her water glass, but her hand shook so hard water sloshed over the rim.

She pulled out her phone. She opened her text thread with Brittain. The last message was hers. Safe travels.

Read: Tuesday 9:00 AM.

He hadn't told her. He hadn't warned her. He just let her find out through a gossipmonger in a coffee shop.

It wasn't the breakup that hurt. She knew that was coming. It was the erasure. To him, she wasn't even worth a goodbye text. She was furniture.

She took a sip of water. It tasted like metal.

"Zack," Cara said. Her voice was hard now. "Launch Plan B. I want the rumors about me and Brady everywhere by tonight."

Zack looked nervous. "The contract penalty..."

"I'll handle Brittain," Cara said.

She stood up. She walked out of the coffee shop into the biting wind. She dialed Brittain's private number.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.

Click.

He sent her to voicemail.

That was it. The final disrespect.

She hailed a taxi. "Austin Media Tower," she told the driver.

She pulled a compact mirror out of her bag. She looked at her pale lips. She took out a tube of lipstick. Not the nude shade Brittain liked. A deep, blood red. She applied it thick. She darkened her eyebrows.

She wasn't going there to beg. She was going there to burn the bridge.

The taxi stopped in front of the glass monolith. She looked up at the top floor.

She stepped out. Her heels clicked against the pavement like gunshots.

Cara walked into the lobby of Austin Media like she owned it. She was wearing a sharp black blazer over her dress, sunglasses on. She headed straight for the private elevators.

She tapped her access card against the reader.

BEEP. A red light flashed. Access Denied.

She tried again. Red light.

She laughed, a short, dry sound. He had already cut her off. He was efficient, she'll give him that.

A security guard, a man she had brought coffee to three times, stepped forward. "Ms. Clay, I'm sorry, I can't let you up."

Cara took off her sunglasses. She didn't plead. She stared him down.

"I am here to return Mr. Austin's house keys," she said loudly. "Unless you want me to leave them right here on the floor where anyone can pick them up?"

The receptionist behind the desk looked panicked. She picked up the phone. "Mr. Wong? Ms. Clay is here. She's... causing a scene."

Two minutes later, Burrel came out of the elevator. He looked tired.

"Cara, please," he said, trying to steer her toward a side room. "He's in a meeting."

"Is it a strategy meeting on how to rehabilitate Ms. Newman's image?" Cara asked. Her voice carried across the marble lobby. Heads turned.

Burrel winced. "Come with me."

He swiped his badge. They rode the elevator in silence. The numbers climbed. 40. 50. 60.

"He's busy, Cara," Burrel said softly. "Mr. Austin cut his London trip short. An urgent matter regarding Ms. Newman came up."

"Busy rekindling old flames?" Cara asked.

The doors opened. The top floor was all glass and steel. Cara walked past Burrel's desk. Through the glass wall of the main office, she saw him.

Brittain wasn't in a meeting. He was sitting alone at his desk, reading a document. He looked annoyed, not busy.

Cara pushed open the heavy glass door. It didn't slam, thanks to the expensive hinges, but it made a solid thud.

Brittain looked up. His brows knit together. "Who let you up here?"

Cara didn't stop until she reached his desk. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the ring of keys-the penthouse, the Hamptons house, the Malibu villa.

She slammed them onto the mahogany desk. The metal jangled violently.

Brittain looked at the keys, then at Cara. His expression was bored. "What is this tantrum, Cara?"

She didn't sit. She towered over him, or tried to. She pulled the printout of the airport photo from her bag and slid it across the desk.

"Your muse is back," she said. "I'm returning my badge."

Brittain glanced at the photo. He didn't look guilty. He looked irritated that his privacy was breached.

"It was just a ride from the airport," he said. "You're overreacting."

Cara laughed. It was a bitter sound. "A ride? Your hand is on her waist, Brittain. You don't touch friends like that."

He stood up then. He was tall, looming over her. The air in the room grew heavy.

"Watch your tone, Cara. Remember who you are talking to."

Cara straightened her spine. She looked him dead in the eye.

"I know exactly who I am talking to," she said. "My ex-boyfriend. That's my new identity."