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."

The word ex-boyfriend hung in the air between them.

Brittain's eyes narrowed. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. He walked around the desk, closing the distance between them. He used his height as a weapon.

"You don't get to decide when this ends," he said. His voice was low, dangerous. "You are under contract."

Cara took a step back, maintaining the gap. "The contract expires on Wednesday. I am not renewing."

Brittain scoffed. It was a dismissive, arrogant sound. "Not renewing? You think you can survive in this town without me? You'll be back to auditioning for toothpaste commercials within a month."

The insult landed. It stung. But it also clarified everything. He didn't respect her. He never had.

"We'll see," she said. "Let's see if I can breathe without the Austin oxygen supply."

He looked annoyed now, like she was a malfunctioning appliance. He reached into his drawer and pulled out a checkbook. He uncapped a fountain pen.

"How much?" he asked. "For the photo? For the hurt feelings? Name the price so I can get back to work."

She looked at the checkbook. She looked at his hand, poised to write away his guilt.

She reached out and placed her hand over his. Her skin was warm against his cold fingers. She pushed his hand down.

"No," she said.

Brittain froze. He looked at her hand, then at her face. Confusion flickered in his eyes.

"I don't want your money, Brittain. I want to be even."

She turned around. She walked toward the door. Her legs felt heavy, but she kept moving.

"If you walk out that door," Brittain called out, his voice striking her back, "I will freeze every account. You won't be able to buy a cup of coffee."

She didn't turn back. "Do it," she said. "That money was for the doll you wanted me to be anyway."

She pulled the door open. Burrel was standing there, holding a file, looking like he wanted to disappear.

"Goodbye, Burrel," she said. She gave him a genuine smile.

She stepped into the elevator. As the doors slid shut, she leaned her head against the cool metal wall. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Back in the office, Brittain crumpled the photo of him and Caryn into a ball and threw it into the trash.

He hit the intercom button. "Freeze Cara Clay's supplementary cards and trust accounts linked to Austin Media. All of them. Now. And tell PR to pull her name from the Met Gala list."

He sat back in his chair. He was sure. She would be back. She had nowhere else to go.

His phone rang. It was Caryn.

Brittain? Are we still on for dinner? Her voice was soft, needy.

He looked at the empty spot where Cara had stood. "Yes," he said. "I'll pick you up at eight."

Down on the street, Cara walked out of the building. Her phone buzzed.

Bank Alert: Credit Card ending in 4098 has been suspended.

She stared at the screen. She had zero dollars in that account now. She laughed, and a tear slipped out and ran down her cheek.

She wiped it away. She texted Zack.

I'm free. Let's work.

She walked toward the subway station. She merged into the crowd, just another girl in New York, invisible and free.

Cara swiped her MetroCard. It took two tries. The turnstile clicked, a rusty, mechanical sound that felt like a welcome home.

The subway car was crowded. It smelled of sweat and old pizza. She held onto the metal pole, her body swaying with the train. Across from her, a teenager was listening to music too loud. It was noisy. It was dirty. It was real.

She got off in Queens. She walked three blocks to a brownstone that had seen better days. She pressed the buzzer marked 3B.

A minute later, the door buzzed.

She climbed the stairs. Her legs were aching.

Toby opened the door. He was wearing flannel pajama pants and a t-shirt with a hole in the shoulder. Tubes. Her childhood friend. The only person who knew Cara Clay before she became Brittain Austin's accessory.

He looked at her face. He looked at her red lipstick, now smudged.

"Rough day at the office?" he asked.

She walked in and kicked off her heels. She groaned as her feet hit the cheap rug.

"I dumped him," she said.

Tubes' eyes went wide. He didn't say anything. He just turned around and walked to his tiny kitchen. He came back with a box of Franzia red wine and two chipped mugs.

"Finally," he said. He poured the wine to the brim. "That guy was a vampire."

Cara took the mug. She took a huge gulp. The wine was sour and room temperature. It was the best thing she had tasted in years.

She sat on his lumpy sofa. She curled her legs under her.

"I told him it's over," she said. Her voice cracked. "But Tubes... it hurts. God, it hurts."

She started to cry. Not the pretty crying she did in movies. Ugly crying. Snot and gasping breaths.

She admitted it then. "I wasn't just acting. I wanted him to love me. I really wanted him to see me."

Tubes sat on the floor next to her. He rested his head on her knee. He didn't try to fix it. He just let her cry.

After a while, the tears stopped. She felt hollowed out.

She checked her bank app. She had the savings from the movie. It wasn't much, but it was hers. He couldn't touch this. This was the money from White Poplar, deposited into a private account she'd opened under her mother's maiden name two years ago. Her escape fund.

"Let's watch trash TV," Tubes suggested.

They sat there for hours, watching a reality show where people married strangers. Her phone vibrated on the cushion.

It was a DM from Brady Roy.

Zack told me you're a free agent. You okay?

She stared at the screen. She typed back.

Ready to put on a show?

Brady replied instantly. Always. Following you now.

She opened Twitter. Brady Roy started following Cara Clay. The notifications started to roll in.

She went to the bathroom. She washed off the red lipstick. She washed off the mascara. She looked at her bare face. There were dark circles under her eyes.

"Hello, Cara," she whispered.

She went back to the living room. Tubes was asleep, snoring softly. She poured herself one last mug of wine.

She closed her eyes and imagined a different life. A life where she was the main character, not the supporting actress.

The next morning, Zack called her. She woke up with a crick in her neck.

"Check the trends!" Zack yelled. "Brady just liked your post from 2021!"