Love, Chloe - Alessandra Torre Page 0,30

scrawny ass. The room was packed—stuffy and hot despite the freezing temperatures outside. I ended up in the doorway, my hand gripping the frame just so I could crane my neck over a crew of teamsters.

Someone in front was talking, an unfamiliar voice droning on about call times. I found Hannah a few heads over, and raised my eyebrows in greeting. She gave me a small smile. “Who’s that?” I mouthed, pointing a finger forward, over the crowd, to the guy talking. They should have given the guy a box to stand on or something.

“Romansky” she mouthed.

Duh. I should have figured. But, with all the hushed drama around this guy, I expected his arrival to come paired with glittery spotlights and a marching band. Last week, he’d been in Japan, the set a clusterfuck of activity without its director, everyone prepping for the filming that would start tomorrow. Hannah turned back to the front, her clipboard up, pen moving, and I bit my bottom lip. Crap. Clipboard. Paper. Pen. All items that were sitting back in Nicole’s trailer. All items a good assistant would have, especially for a meeting like this. I heard the director rattle off a list of meetings and times, and I whipped out my phone and tried to type, tried to save at least one appointment. There was a low chuckle from my left and I turned to find Joey Plazen shaking his head at me. I felt the itchy crawl of embarrassment heat my cheeks. He tapped on a shoulder and the crowd parted, crewmembers crawling over themselves to clear a path, his steps moving easily toward an empty chair that looked like it was reserved for him.

Through the parted bodies, the hole beginning to close, I got my first glimpse at the man at the front of the room, our director, the famed Paulo Romansky. A man I had seen before, one fateful afternoon back on the Upper East Side: Nicole’s hipster boyfriend.

28. Oh. I Totally Get It.

Everything suddenly made sense.

Nicole’s secret fling.

Clarke’s stern directive to watch her on set.

Her role in a big budget film where she didn’t belong.

The pieces fell into a big arrow that pointed directly to the man at the front of the room. Nicole was sleeping with the director. It was so obvious I was almost insulted.

How stereotypical could she be? Everyone was walking around snidely suggesting that she’d bought her way onto the film, but oh NO. It was so much worse. Especially since Romansky was also married, to one of those Victoria Secret models with insured legs. I had a moment of pity for his wife but I’d seen plenty of photos of her. She’d bounce back. Literally. Her return to glory would be the perky boobs-in-a-million-dollar-bra type of bounce back.

I lost sight of him and tried to spot Nicole over the scores of heads, over a hundred people crowding the room. So many people and Hannah said there’d be even more once filming started. I gave up on my search for Nicole and slumped against the doorframe.

I needed a drink. I couldn’t imagine this meeting ending and having to face Nicole. Not when my face was getting all flushed and itchy and it felt like I was going to—of all things—cry. Cry! Where in the hell did that weakness come from? It wasn’t like I was emotionally invested in Nicole’s marriage, wasn’t like I’d just discovered the affair. But now that I knew who he was, it seemed even worse. Did Nicole even like this guy? Or was he just a stepping-stone she took to get this role? I could handle an affair for love, but cheating on Clarke for a role—that was where my brain stopped working.

My mind flashed to Clarke, the intensity on his face when he’d cornered me in the house. “Keep an eye on her.” He’d said the words shortly, with a bit of an edge. “For me.”

What good would keeping my eye on her do? What would I do with more information? And wasn’t that why Nicole had given me a raise? To keep her dirty secrets?

I groaned and dropped my head to my chest, too confused to know what to do. In my back pocket, my cell buzzed, and I fished it out of my pocket. It was a text, from a name I’d rather not see right then.

Clarke.

The text was short and deadly. Seen anything?

I stared at it, no idea how to respond. The meeting ended, bodies bumped against