at his watch and jotting something on his ever-present clipboard. He hands me a bound copy of the script. “You’ll have a copy waiting for you, but in case you want a minute to look it over. Obviously you’ve done this before, but everyone should be there—probably eating—and the read-through should take about two hours. Depending on how chatty everyone gets.”
“Sounds good. Thanks for getting me.”
He grins at me, and as frazzled as I am, I mentally reshuffle Charlie’s predictions for the shoot. If he smiles at her like that, she won’t stand a chance.
“You say that now,” he says, dimple popping in each cheek. “Let’s see if you still feel that way when I’m knocking on your door at four a.m.”
More golf carts line the front of the Community House, and the main room inside is packed. Thankfully Devon was right: most people are eating or talking amongst themselves, so my late arrival doesn’t garner much attention. But of course Dad notices. And Marco. I keep walking. I can’t avoid Dad’s disappointed glare forever, but I can at least avoid it for another five minutes. Marco knows me better than anyone. He knows that, for me, on time is as good as five minutes late and is already on his way over before I have the chance to stop him.
Reaching for my arm, he gently pulls me to the side. “What happened?” He looks closer, clearly sensing something monumental, even knowing I can’t tell him about it now. His eyes narrow. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Neither one of us is buying it. I give his hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll explain later.”
With a glance around us, Marco reluctantly lets me go. I take the seat waiting for me next to Nick, mirroring his excited smile. Three long tables have been pulled together, all facing each other to form a U in the center of the room. The primary cast is at the center table, the secondary at another, and the principal crew is at the third. More people are here than I’ve ever seen at a table read: chairs line the walls and every inch of space is filled with someone anxious to hear the first read-through with Ian and Tate Butler.
Gwen stands and the room quiets around us. She takes a moment to thank the crew and staff that have worked so hard to get us to this point. She takes a deep breath and talks about the screenplay, how she’s never read anything quite like it. I clap along with everyone else when she’s finished, but the sound is like static in my ears; voices like they’re coming from underwater.
I can feel the gentle weight of Marco’s eyes on me, worried and constantly wanting to check in. And even though I don’t know where Sam is in the room, I can feel him, too, just like I could all those years ago.
I was so angry in the months following London. Thanks to reporters and the interview I did with Dad, I was the shiny new toy and the offers came rolling in. The public was fascinated. We told a story: that Dad and Mom had agreed to take me away from LA. That Dad had always known where I was and been constantly involved. And, most important, Marco made sure to whisper to just the right people that the Guardian exposé was planned all along—no one actually betrayed us.
I did interviews with People and Cosmo, a five-page spread in Elle. Two days after the shoot, I got a call from Dawn Ostroff at the CW. Within three weeks, I’d signed with my manager Alec and been cast as the lead in Evil Darlings.
It may have begun as a campy TV show, but Darlings spun off an entire toy line, board games, a clothing line, and tie-in-novels. It opened the door to more TV and eventually movies, helping me land the role of my dreams.
At first, acting was an escape, enabling me to be someone else and pretend that everything was okay. But it was also an active form of revenge—I wanted to haunt Sam. I loved the idea of him seeing me on his television and knowing that I wasn’t his, that I would never be his again. I fantasized that he saw me and saw that he hadn’t broken me; I was stronger without him. I’d imagine his regret, his guilt, his heartbreak.
For a few seconds, the fantasy would be as good as a high. But