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!"

Cara walked into Zack's office holding a bodega coffee. Her eyes were puffy, but her hands were steady.

Zack was pointing at a large monitor. The line on the graph was going up. Vertical.

"Brady's like has the fans spiraling," Zack said. He rubbed his hands together. "The strategy is simple. Ambiguity. We don't confirm. We don't deny. We let them connect the dots."

Cara nodded. She knew how to play this game.

She opened Instagram. She scrolled back through her camera roll to the set of White Poplar. She found a photo. It was her and Brady sitting on apple crates, reading scripts. But the angle... the angle made it look intimate. They were leaning in.

She uploaded it.

Caption: Found this one. The energy that day was... intense. @BradyRoy

She hit share.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. This was a direct violation of the spirit of the NDA, even if the letter of it was expiring.

One minute later. A comment appeared.

BradyRoy: That's because you were stealing my scene, Clay.

The wink. The wink was lethal.

The comments section exploded.

OMG ARE THEY???

CaraBrady

Finally a guy who appreciates her!

She saw a comment from a user named HaliFan123: She's just a rebound.

It was immediately buried by fifty replies defending her.

Zack laughed. "Look at that! Austin can blacklist you from the Met Gala, but he can't blacklist you from the internet."

She watched the follower count tick up. 10k. 50k. 100k. It felt like power.

Across town, in the Austin Media tower, Burrel sat at his desk. He had a sentiment analysis tool open on his screen. The heat map was red.

He saw the photo. He saw the wink.

He swallowed hard. He looked at the closed door of Brittain's office. He could hear Brittain shouting on a conference call.

Burrel closed the tab. "He's in a bad mood," he muttered to himself. "I'll tell him later."

Back in Queens, Cara posted a Story. Just two coffee cups on a table. No faces. But in the corner of the frame, slightly out of focus, was a man's wrist wearing a vintage Rolex.

The internet detectives went to work. Within ten minutes, a fan account posted a side-by-side photo of Brady wearing that exact watch.

PopCrave tweeted: Cara Clay and Brady Roy spark dating rumors with cryptic coffee date.

Her phone buzzed. It was Brady.

DM: Nice touch with the watch. Dinner tonight? Somewhere public?

She typed back: Deal. Pick a place with big windows.

She closed her eyes. She navigated to her contacts. She found Brittain Austin.

She hovered over the Block Contact button.

Her thumb hovered. This was the digital equivalent of slamming the door.

She pressed it.

Block Contact.

She looked at Zack.

"Get me a dress," she said. "Something that says 'I'm not mourning.'"

Zack grinned. "I have just the thing."

The dressing room behind the press junket stage smelled of hairspray. Cara stared at herself in the mirror. The red dress was scandalous. It had a plunging neckline and a slit up the thigh. It was a weapon.

Brady walked in. He was wearing a suit that fit him perfectly. He stopped and whistled.

"Wow," he said. "That is not the Cara I know."

Cara turned to him. "The Cara you knew was boring."

They went over the signals. Touch her arm means laugh. Eye contact means deep emotional connection.

Zack was pacing. "Remember, pivot everything to 'chemistry.'"

Cara felt a twinge of guilt. These fans... they believed them. But then she remembered the checkbook. She remembered the frozen credit card.

"Let's do this," she said.

They walked out. The flashbulbs were blinding. It was a wall of white light.

They sat down. The first question came from a reporter in the front row.

"Cara, that coffee photo... are you and Brady an item?"

Cara looked at Brady. She softened her eyes. She let a small, shy smile play on her lips.

Brady leaned into his mic. "We are just... enjoying each other's company." He turned to her and smiled. "Right?"

Cara looked down, feigning embarrassment. "Brady is an amazing... partner."

She let the word partner hang there.

Throughout the interview, they touched. He brushed a stray hair from her face. She slapped his knee when he made a joke. It was a dance.

And she realized something. She was good at this. She was enjoying it. With Brittain, she had to shrink. With Brady, she had to shine.

They wrapped up. Backstage, they high-fived.

"Did you see them?" Brady laughed. "They ate it up."

Zack ran in. "You guys are trending 1. Higher than the President."

Cara looked at her phone. There were photos of them everywhere. She looked happy. She looked radiant.

"Celebration drinks?" Brady asked.

"Sure," she said. "Where?"

"The Vault," Brady suggested.

Cara froze. The Vault was Brittain's spot. He had a permanent table there.

She hesitated. But then the anger flared up again. Why should she hide?

"No," she said, a new glint in her eye. "Let's go to the premiere's official after-party at the St. Regis. More cameras there."