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."

The Vault was dark, smelling of expensive cigars and aged leather. Jazz music played softly.

Brittain sat in his usual corner booth. He nursed a glass of scotch. He was brooding. He hadn't heard from Cara in three days. The silence was deafening. He was starting to get worried, though he would never admit it.

Miles Turner sat across from him. Miles was looking at his phone, grinning.

"Damn, Austin," Miles said. "Your little bird flew the coop and found a new nest."

Brittain frowned. "What are you talking about?"

Miles turned his phone around. "Look."

It was a clip from the press conference. Cara in the red dress. Brady brushing her hair back. The look in her eyes.

Brittain felt his blood run cold. His stomach twisted into a knot.

"That's PR," Brittain said. His voice was tight. "It's fake."

But he couldn't stop staring. He stared at Brady's hand on her arm. He stared at the way she leaned into him.

Just then, Caryn arrived. She was wearing white lace. She slid into the booth next to Brittain and looped her arm through his.

"Sorry I'm late," she cooed. "Jordon is being a nightmare again."

Brittain barely acknowledged her. He was fixated on Miles's phone.

Caryn followed his gaze. "Oh," she said. Her voice dripped with fake pity. "She looks... desperate. Trying a bit too hard, isn't she?"

Miles signaled the bartender. "Hey, put the entertainment news on the big screen."

"No," Brittain started to say.

But the screen flickered to life. It was a live feed from the premiere after-party.

There she was. Cara. She was laughing. Her head was thrown back, her neck exposed. She looked alive. She looked electric.

Brittain felt a sharp pain in his chest. He realized he had never seen her laugh like that. Not once.

On the screen, the reporter asked them to play a game. Charades.

Brittain watched as they moved in sync. They had a rhythm.

Caryn tugged at his sleeve. "Brittain, can we order champagne?"

Brittain ignored her. He was watching Cara's hand rest on Brady's chest.

The glass in his hand creaked.