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The harsh lights surrounding Paige’s trailer mirror were humming; a low, buzzing frequency that felt like it was vibrating directly inside her teeth.

Outside, the studio lot was bustling with the chaos of a multi-million dollar thriller production. Inside, it smelled like cheap hairspray, burnt espresso, and the vanilla perfume the lead makeup artist had been slathering on Paige for the past forty-five minutes.

"Keep your eyes up for me," the artist, a soft-spoken woman named Sarah, murmured gently. She tapped a tiny brush under Paige’s eye, trying to conceal the dark, bruised-looking circles that no amount of expensive foundation could entirely hide anymore. "Just blending out the dark circles. Early morning shoots are brutal on everyone, but we’ll have you looking like a movie star in no time."

Paige barely suppressed a bitter snort. Movie star. She stared blindly at her own reflection. At twenty-one, she possessed the kind of cheekbones that directors drooled over; sharp, striking, and undeniably captivating on film. But beneath the layers of foundation and contour, Paige felt like a walking ghost.

Her bleached-blonde hair was pulled back tightly, a leftover artifact of the studio’s desperate, decade-long attempt to package her as America’s girl next door. They had fought her tooth and nail when she started wearing suits, when she refused the dresses, when she stopped hiding who she was. Eventually, when they realized they couldn't force her into a pink sundress without a fight, they just stopped trying to market her image altogether; and leaned into letting the tabloids tear her apart instead.

"Alright, take five while I go grab the FX kit," Sarah said with a sympathetic smile, patting Paige’s shoulder before stepping out of the trailer, letting the cold morning air rush in for a split second before the door clicked shut.

Paige reached into the pocket of her hoodie. Her fingers brushed against the small, metallic foil packet of pills she had stashed there; her daily shield against the weight of existing, but her hand drifted instead toward her phone lying face down on the illuminated vanity station.

She knew she shouldn't look. But Paige was a sadist when it came to her own torture.

Her thumb flicked the screen awake.

HOLLYWOOD'S GOLDEN GIRL GONE WRONG: Inside Paige Bueckers’ Tragic Downward Spiral⁠

Paige swallowed past the dryness in her throat and clicked the link.

The article opened with a photo from her childhood; a nine year old Paige grinning awkwardly on a red carpet, flanked by her mother and father. Her parents had their hands gripped firmly on her shoulders, smiling broadly for the cameras.

To the public, it looked like a picture perfect, supportive family. Paige remembered that exact night: her father had pinched her collarbone so hard to make her stop crying that it had left a bruise, all because she had complained about being tired after an eighteen-hour shoot.

Her eyes dragged down the text, scanning the words as a cold, sickening numbness spread through her chest.

"...It’s the classic tale of Hollywood privilege turned toxic. Bueckers, who was practically handed an acting career on a silver platter by her doting, devoted parents, seems determined to throw it all away. Sources close to the family reveal that Paige was raised in a loving home where her talent was nurtured from the moment she could walk...”

A sharp, ragged breath escaped Paige’s lips. Handed to me? A loving home?

They didn't write about the non-disclosure agreements her parents made her sign when she turned sixteen to keep her from speaking about where her money actually went. They didn't mention the fact that she hadn’t gotten an education beyond eighth grade.

They didn't talk about her mother locking her in a bathroom for six hours because she refused to wear a skirt to an audition, screaming that Paige was going to ruin their lives. Her childhood hadn't been a silver platter. It had been an auction block, and her parents had been the top sellers.

"...Despite having every advantage, a sprawling safety net, and a family that sacrificed everything for her dream, Bueckers has traded her god given talent for late-night benders, missed marks, and suspected substance abuse. Production insiders report that her erratic behavior is putting her latest film in jeopardy..."

Paige stared at the words until they blurred together into meaningless black smudges on the glass.

The hypocrisy of it made her jaw clench so hard her teeth ached. The industry had broken her bones, drained her blood, built a multi million dollar empire on her back before she was even old enough to vote; and now that she was bleeding out in front of them, they called her ungrateful. They framed her as the spoiled brat who wrecked her own fairy tale.

Her vision swam. A hot, angry tear welled in the corner of her eye, threatening to break over her lashes and ruin the forty-five minutes of airbrushed perfection on her face.

No. Don't you dare.

Paige closed her eyes tight, tilting her head back against the chair. She sucked in a long, shaky breath through her nose, holding it until her lungs burned, forcing the emotion back down into the dark, locked box inside her chest where it belonged.

She couldn't cry. Crying meant Sarah would have to redo her makeup. Redoing her makeup meant being late to set. Being late to set meant more articles calling her a diva, an addict, a

failure.

She slowly opened her eyes, her gaze hardening into something cold, distant, and carefully guarded.

The trailer door chimed and swung open.

"Alright, Paige, got the fake blood!" Sarah called out cheerfully, stepping back inside with a plastic tray. She paused, catching Paige's eye in the mirror. "You okay? You look a little pale."

Paige tossed her phone face down onto the counter with a dull clack. She offered a smirk that didn't reach her

eyes, leaning back into the chair with practiced indifference.

"I'm fantastic, Sarah," Paige said, her voice dripping with smooth, hollow sarcasm. "Just eager to go out there."

—

The sound of heavy machinery, yelling crew members, and shifting lighting rigs hit Paige like a blow the second she stepped out of her trailer. The morning sun was painfully bright, slicing through the cool air of the backlot and making the headache thrumming behind her eyes beat to the rhythm of her racing pulse.

She shoved her hands into the pockets of her hoodie, her head tilted down, keeping her eyes fixed on the cracked asphalt beneath her sneakers. Every step felt like walking through wet cement. The pills from last night were wearing off, leaving behind a hollow, jittery hangover that made her skin feel too tight for her body.

"Paige! Finally!"

The sharp, grating voice cut through the ambient noise of the set before she even reached the soundstage door.

It was Marcus, the film’s director. He was pacing near the monitor bank, a rolled-up script clutched in his hand like a club. Marcus was a darling of the thriller scene; brilliant, celebrated, and notoriously cruel to anyone he deemed beneath him. And right now, Paige was at the top of his target list.

He marched straight toward her, stopping barely a foot away. The entire soundstage, sound techs, camera operators, grips, costume assistants, instantly went dead silent. Everyone knew the drill. When Marcus went off, you looked down and prayed you weren’t next.

Marcus glared down at her, his eyes cold and disdainful as he took in her pale skin, the slight tremor in her hands, and the unmistakable exhaustion carved into her features.

"Look at yourself," Marcus spat, his voice carrying clearly across the quiet stage. "Are you serious right now, Paige?"

Paige kept her chin down, staring at the dust on his boots. "I’m ready to shoot."

"Ready?" He laughed, a harsh, humorless sound that made a few crew members flinch. "You look like you’ve been on a three-day bender. Look at your eyes! We are burning fifty thousand dollars an hour while you pull yourself together!"

He stepped closer, leaning in so his voice dropped into that low, venomous tone that hit far harder than yelling ever could.

"You are the most selfish, ungrateful talent I have ever had to work with," he sneered, jabbing a finger at her chest. "Do you have any idea how many brilliant, dedicated actors would crawl over broken glass to stand where you're standing right now? People who actually care about the craft?"

The words stung, but they didn't surprise her. They didn't even make her angry. Because as Paige stood there, absorbing every line of his tirade, a quiet, sickening voice in the back of her mind whispered: He's right.

The articles were right. Marcus was right. Her parents had been right. She was broken, ruined, and spoiled. She had been given the jackpot, a career millions would die for, and all she knew how to do was wreck it. She was a burden to the production, a plague to the crew, a mess of a human being who couldn't even keep her head straight for a shoot.

"I'm sorry, Marcus," she murmured softly, her voice barely audible. There was no defiance in it. No bite. Just a flat, hollow submission that seemed to irritate him even more.

"Save your apology," Marcus snapped, turning his back on her with a wave of his hand. "Just get to your mark. If you ruin this take, I swear to God, Paige."

Paige didn't look up to see who was watching. She could feel the judging eyes of fifty crew members on her back as she walked across the tape-marked floor to her spot near the center of the set.

The scene called for her character; a detective pushed to her absolute limit, to break down after finding a crucial piece of evidence.

She stepped up to the yellow tape on the floor, breathing in the smell of wood dust and stage smoke. She pulled off her hoodie, tossing it aside to reveal the distressed leather jacket of her character. She rolled her shoulders back, shook out her arms, and tilted her head up into the harsh key light.

The hangover was still screaming behind her eyes. The shame from Marcus’s words was still burning like acid in her throat. But as the assistant director called out, "Quiet on set! Roll camera... and... ACTION!" something shifted.

The haunted, hollow look vanished from Paige’s face, replaced instantly by the sharp, desperate intensity of her character. The mask slammed into place so fast, so seamlessly, it was almost horrifying.

She dropped to her knees on the cold concrete, her hands trembling as she picked up the evidence file. Tears; real, furious, agonizing tears born from a lifetime of being torn apart, welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks on command. Her jaw tightened, her breath hitched, and for three breathtaking minutes, Paige Bueckers didn't exist. There was only the raw genius of an actress who could turn her own living nightmare into art.

Across the soundstage, the camera operator stared through the viewfinder, completely breathless. Even Marcus sat back in his director's chair, tight-lipped and silent, unable to deny the terrifying truth:

No matter how broken she was off-camera, the moment the red light turned on, Paige was untouchable.

—

The soundstage doors slammed shut behind Paige, cutting off the heat of the studio lights and the lingering silence of a stunned crew.

She pulled the hood of her jacket low over her head, ignoring the assistant director yelling after her about a scene reset. Paige didn't care. She had delivered her takes, given them her soul on a silver platter, and now she just needed to escape.

She practically sprinted across the backlot to where her black SUV was idling. Tommy, her driver; and one of the only people who didn't talk to her like she was a ticking bomb, held the door open without a word. Paige slid into the back seat, burying her face in her hands the second the door clicked shut.

"Where to?" Tommy asked quietly through the glass partition.

"Annie's office," Paige muttered, her voice muffled against her palms. "She called a couple times while I was in makeup. Let's just get it over with."

Tommy gave a sympathetic nod in the rearview mirror and pulled out of the studio gates into the sprawling, sun-drenched LA traffic.

Twenty minutes later, Paige was riding the elevator up to the top floor of a high-rise in Century City. Annie Vance was a new addition to Paige’s life; she had taken Paige on as a client only six months ago after Paige finally fired her parents' old management team. Annie actually seemed to care whether Paige survived the industry. Paige respected her, which only made facing her right now feel ten times worse.

When the glass elevator doors slid open, Paige pushed past the reception desk and walked straight into the corner office.

Annie was sitting behind her desk, a tablet in hand. She looked exhausted, her eyes tracking over news feeds, but the moment the door clicked, she set the tablet down. There was no anger in Annie's expression; just genuine concern.

"Hey," Annie said softly, standing up from her chair. "Rough morning?"

Paige slumped onto the leather couch in the middle of the room, pulling her knees up to her chest like a shield. "Marcus tore me a new one," she admitted quietly, staring down at her sneakers. "He's not wrong, though. I look like shit and I feel worse."

Annie walked over, and sat on the coffee table right across from Paige. She pushed a bottle of water and a warm coffee toward her.

"Marcus is a jerk who doesn't know how to talk to people," Annie said gently, but her tone carried a serious weight. "But Paige... I'm worried about you. And it's not just Marcus. Look at what came across my desk this morning."

Annie slid a small stack of printouts toward her. Tabloid headlines stared back at Paige: PAIGE BUECKERS: HOLLYWOOD'S LOST CAUSE, THE DOWNWARD SPIRAL, INSIDERS CLAIM BUECKERS IS UNWORKABLE.

"The media is having a field day," Annie sighed, rubbing her temples. "I’ve spent the last three hours on the phone with studio heads trying to keep you on two upcoming projects. They're terrified, Paige. Not because you aren't brilliant; you're the best actress of your generation and everyone knows it, but because the public narrative is out of control. All anyone sees right now is a tragedy in the making. They view you as unsafe, unstable."

Paige stared at the paper stack, feeling a bitter, familiar knot tighten in her chest. She hated how much trouble she was causing the one person who had actually tried to help her.

"I give them everything on camera, Annie," Paige murmured, her voice cracking slightly. "I don't know how to fix the rest of it."

"I know you do," Annie said softly, reaching out to give Paige’s arm an encouraging squeeze. "I know how hard you work. But we need to protect you. We need to flip the script. If we don't give the media something else to talk about, they are going to write your obituary before you even turn twenty-two."

Paige looked up, her bright blue eyes rimmed with red. "What do you mean? What kind of distraction?"

Annie took a slow breath, picking her words carefully. "We give them a love story."

Paige blinked, taking a second to process that. "A... what?"

"A love story," Annie repeated gently. "A relationship. Something that changes the conversation entirely. The public loves a redemption arc, Paige, especially one driven by love. It gives people a reason to root for you again. It gives the studios the reassurance that you have a stable life, a support system, a reason to stay grounded."

Paige stared at her manager, a dry, self-deprecating laugh barking out of her chest. "Annie, are you serious? Have you looked at me lately? No one in their right mind is falling in love with me."

Annie offered a soft, sympathetic smile.

"Well," Annie said quietly, "thank God you act for a living then."

The room went completely silent.

Paige slowly sat up straight, her eyebrows pulling together as the reality of what Annie was proposing hit her. "Wait. No. You can't be serious."

"Paige, listen to me—"

"You want me to fake a relationship?!" Paige pushed herself off the couch, stepping back as panic flared in her chest.

"I want to save your career so you can actually have a future," Annie said urgently, standing up to meet her, her tone full of desperate care rather than malice. "We hire someone. Someone completely outside of this world. Someone sweet, normal, totally untouched by the tabloids. We set up an arrangement. A few photos, a couple of public appearances. After a few months, an engagement. Eventually, a wedding. It gives you a shield, Paige. It buys you time to actually get healthy without the press picking your bones clean every single day."

"A wife?!" Paige repeated, her voice rising in sheer disbelief. "You want me to pay someone to pretend to be my girlfriend? To be my fiancée? Annie, that’s insane! That’s fake, it’s creepy, it’s..."

"It's protection," Annie pleaded softly, holding her hands up. "It’s a business arrangement that keeps the negativity away from you while we rebuild your life. I'm not trying to control you. I'm trying to keep you from getting any worse."

Paige stood in the center of the office, her chest heaving as she stared at Annie. She knew Annie was coming from a place of love and protection; which almost made it harder, but the idea of scripting her private life made her feel sick to her stomach.

"I can't," Paige whispered, her voice trembling. "I can't buy a person to act like they care about me."

"Paige, please just think about—"

"I can't do it, Annie," Paige said firmly, pulling her hood up over her head. "I'm sorry. I just can't."

Before Annie could say another word, Paige turned on her heel and pushed open the office door, heading straight for the elevator to escape before anyone could see the tears stinging her eyes.

—

Paige hadn't slept. Between the hangover, the director’s tirade from yesterday, and Annie’s insane proposal about a fake relationship, her mind had spent the last eight hours running in relentless, exhausting circles.

A soft, hesitant knock echoed against the thin metal door of her trailer.

Paige winced, burying her face in her pillow for a second before pushing herself up. "It’s open!" she called out, her voice rough and gravelly from sleep deprivation.

The door swung inward, and for a second, Paige completely forgot how to breathe.

Standing in the doorway was a girl holding a clipboard.

"Hi, sorry to bother you so early," the girl said, her voice gentle and slightly nervous. "I’m Azzi. Azzi Fudd. I’m the new production intern, I’m going to be helping out around set and assisting you and the rest of the cast."

Paige just sat there on the edge of her trailer couch, frozen.

Her mind went completely quiet as her eyes took Azzi in. The very first thing that hit Paige was just how breathtakingly beautiful she was. Azzi had glowing skin, wide brown eyes, and stunning dark curls that spilled over her shoulders. When Azzi offered a polite, nervous little smile, Paige felt her chest tighten; because the smile revealed the cutest pair of bunny teeth and a single, deep dimple on her cheek that was so gorgeous it was almost unfair.

Jesus, Paige thought, her heart doing a weird, sudden flip.

"I just wanted to drop off today's updated call sheet and check in," Azzi continued, stepping fully inside and setting a paper on the small table. She looked at Paige, her eyes softening with genuine concern as she noticed how exhausted the actress looked. "Is there anything I can get for you to start your morning? Coffee, water... anything at all?"

"Yeah, actually," Paige said, her voice dropping into a quiet, slightly raspy tone. "Some Advil would be amazing. My head feels like it's being hit with a sledgehammer."

"On it," Azzi said instantly, her face lighting up with a warm, eager expression. "I'll be back in two minutes!"

She turned and hurried out, leaving the door ajar. Paige leaned back against the cushions, letting out a breath she didn't realize she’d been holding.

True to her word, Azzi was back in less than two minutes, holding a fresh bottle of water and two pills in her palm.

"Here you go," Azzi said gently, handing them over. She lingered by the doorway, giving Paige space.

"Thanks, Azzi," Paige murmured, tossing the pills back and swallowing them down. "You're a life saver."

"Of course," Azzi smiled, that single dimple making another appearance. "Are you heading down to soundstage four now? I can walk with you."

"Yeah, let's go," Paige muttered, grabbing her jacket and pulling her hood up.

They stepped out into the crisp morning air, walking side by side down the wide asphalt lanes between the massive soundstages. Usually, Paige walked with her head down, rushing to avoid making eye contact with crew members who were whispering about her latest scandal. But with Azzi walking right next to her, the weight on her shoulders felt... lighter.

"So," Paige said, glancing sideways at Azzi, trying to play it smooth while secretly taking in the way the sunlight hit the girl's curls. "How are you liking it here so far? Hollywood keeping you busy?"

Azzi let out a soft, melodic laugh. "Oh, it's chaos, honestly. I'm a production intern, so I expected a lot of running around, but I've mostly been getting yelled at for bringing the wrong brand of almond milk to people." She grinned, looking over at Paige with bright, open eyes. "To be completely honest, you're actually the nicest person I’ve met here so far."

Paige stopped dead in her tracks for a split second, her eyes widening slightly before she forced her feet to keep moving.

The nicest person she's met?

Paige's chest swelled with a sudden, overwhelming warmth. Azzi, sweet, gorgeous, soft-spoken Azzi, was standing right here, looking at her with kindness, completely untainted by the things written about her. She wasn't judging her. She didn't look at Paige like she was broken.

Paige kept her face composed, offering just a small, subtle smirk so she wouldn't embarrass herself, but inside, her heart was beating faster than it had in months.

"Well," Paige said softly, her eyes locking onto Azzi’s with a rare, genuine warmth. "Don't let the secret out. I've got a reputation to maintain."

Azzi giggled, the sound making Paige’s stomach do another flutter.

As they reached the doors of the soundstage, Paige felt a sudden, sharp pang of disappointment that the walk was already over. She didn't want to go inside and pretend to be someone else for twelve hours. She just wanted to stand out here and listen to Azzi talk.

I want to talk to her all the time, Paige realized with terrifying clarity as Azzi held the soundstage door open for her with a sweet smile. I need to keep talking to her.

The break between takes couldn't come fast enough. As soon as Marcus yelled, "Cut! Moving setups!", Paige bypassed her chair, her assistant, and the touch-up crew, her eyes sweeping the crowded perimeter of the soundstage.

She spotted her near the crafts table. Azzi was holding a stack of call sheets, leaning against an equipment trunk and looking exhausted, but the second her eyes met Paige's, her face lit up.

"Hey," Paige said, leaning one shoulder against the wall next to her. "Surviving?"

"Barely," Azzi laughed softly, tucking a curl behind her ear. She looked up at Paige, her eyes wide and full of genuine awe. "I got to watch your last take from behind the monitors, though. You were incredible. Seriously. So, so talented."

Warmth rushed straight to Paige’s face. Coming from Marcus or the producers, compliments felt like business transactions. But from Azzi it felt like winning an Oscar. Paige was absolutely over the moon, her stomach doing backflips as she forced out a casual grin.

"Thanks," Paige said, her voice dropping an octave, soft and genuine.

They talked for a few more minutes before the second assistant director called Paige back to set, leaving Paige floating on a cloud for the rest of the shoot.

By the time wrap was called for the night, the sun had long set, leaving the studio lot bathed in harsh overhead floodlights and cold night air. Paige was exhausted, her bones aching as she walked back toward the row of trailers, her hands buried deep in her jacket pockets.

As she rounded the corner near the equipment trucks, she heard raised male voices and loud, obnoxious laughter.

Paige instinctively slowed her steps. Two of her male co-stars were leaning against a van, holding paper cups of coffee and laughing amongst themselves.

"I'm telling you, man, she’s totally out of her depth," one of them said, tossing his cup into a bin. "I heard the line producer talking. She only got this internship because production took pity on her for being dirt poor."

"Seriously?" the other snickered, leaning in. "Well, she's gorgeous. Shit, maybe she’d be open to a little private arrangement. I’d happily pay her rent if she made it worth my while."

They both burst into loud, disgusting laughter.

Paige’s whole body went rigid.

A cold, blinding fury erupted in her chest, so violent it made her knuckles turn white inside her pockets. Her jaw locked, her breath catching in her throat as she stared at the back of their heads. She wanted to walk over there and smash their faces into the asphalt. She wanted to ruin them. She knew exactly what it felt like to be looked at like a piece of meat, to be talked about like trash by men with power and money; and the thought of them directing that filth at Azzi, potentially acting on it, made Paige’s blood boil with a terrifying intensity.

She didn't confront them. She knew a fight on set would just end up in the news and somehow get blamed on her or cause trouble for Azzi.

Instead, Paige turned sharply on her heel and marched straight to her trailer.

She slammed the door shut, locked it, and yanked her phone out of her pocket with hands that were shaking with adrenaline. She didn't hesitate. She dialed Annie’s number.

Annie picked up on the second ring. "Paige? Is everything okay? Did something happen on set?"

Paige stood in the middle of her trailer, breathing heavily, her eyes fixed on her reflection in the vanity mirror. The dark circles were still there, the exhaustion was still heavy, but for the first time in months, her eyes were sharp, clear, and completely focused.

"Annie," Paige said, her voice dropping into a low, dead-serious tone that made her manager instantly go quiet on the other end of the line. "That fake relationship idea."

There was a brief pause on the phone. "Yeah?"

"I'll do it," Paige said, her heart pounding against her ribs as Azzi's smile and the cruel words of those actors, echoed in her mind. "As long as I get to pick the girl, she’s an intern on set."

Annie was quiet for a long second on the other end of the line, the rustle of papers pausing entirely. "Paige, slow down. An intern? What are you talking about?"

Paige gripped her phone tightly, pacing the narrow floor of her trailer. The anger from earlier was still humming in her veins, but behind it was a sudden, crystal-clear resolve.

"Her name is Azzi Fudd," Paige said, the words tumbling out fast and decisive. "She started today on set. Annie, she's... she’s perfect. She’s gorgeous, she’s so sweet, and the press would eat her up. She likes talking to me."

"Paige…" Annie cautioned, her tone shifting into pragmatic manager mode. "Why would a random intern agree to fake-date a star with your level of public heat?"

"Because she's drowning," Paige said, her voice dropping into a fierce, protective lower register. "She's poor and working her ass off for pennies. I can fix that for her, Annie. I can give her money. I can give her a safe place to live, a comfortable life, a real safety net. It’s a win-win."

Paige paused, her jaw tightening as the scene near the equipment trucks flashed in her mind again.

"And besides," Paige adde, "I already overheard two of my co-stars making disgusting jokes about her. Talking about taking advantage of her financial situation, I could help her."

Annie let out a long breath over the speaker. "Okay. Okay, I hear you.

If you're serious about this, I'll have non-disclosure agreement ready by tonight, and we can—"

"No," Paige cut in sharply.

"No?" Annie sounded confused. "Paige, an NDA is standard procedure for an arrangement like this. You need legal protection—"

"No NDAs," Paige said firmly, leaving zero room for argument. "I’m not putting a contract in her face and treating her like a threat. I’m not gonna make her feel like she’s being controlled or trapped. She’s not gonna run to the tabloids."

Annie was silent for a moment, clearly weighing the risks, but the conviction in Paige's voice was hard to fight.

"Fine," Annie finally agreed with a soft sigh. "But how are you going to approach her? You can't just throw money at a girl and ask her to move in with you."

"I'll handle it," Paige murmured, her eyes softening as she pictured Azzi’s dimpled smile and soft curls. "It will be fine."

—

The next morning, the knock on Paige’s trailer door was soft and hesitant.

Paige pulled the door open to find Azzi standing on the step, holding a steaming cup of coffee from a shop down the street, not the cheap stuff from crafts.

"Hey," Azzi said, her smile instantly appearing, single dimple and all. "I brought you a real vanilla latte. I figured you needed something good before shooting, especially since you have an off day tomorrow. You should really rest up."

Paige took the cup, her fingers brushing against Azzi’s, sending a strange, warm spark up her arm. "Thanks. You're the best." Paige paused, stepping back into the trailer. "Hey... do you have a second? Can you sit down?"

Azzi looked a little surprised, but nodded, stepping inside and taking a seat on the small couch. "Is everything okay?"

Paige shut the trailer door for privacy, before walking over and sitting in the armchair opposite her. She rubbed the back of her neck, suddenly feeling a knot of nerves tight in her throat.

"I overheard some people talking yesterday," Paige started quietly, keeping her eyes fixed on Azzi. "Near the equipment vans. They were... talking about your financial situation."

Azzi’s smile vanished instantly. The color drained from her face, her shoulders squaring up as a defensive, uncomfortable wall slammed up between them. She shifted in her seat, looking down at her hands, her jaw clenching.

"Paige, please," Azzi murmured, her voice tight. "I just came to drop off the coffee. I don't really want to talk about my bank account or debt with—"

"I'm not judging you, Azzi. I swear I'm not," Paige said quickly, leaning forward, her tone urgent and genuine. "Listen to me. As you probably know from every news article on the internet, I am in deep shit right now. My reputation is in the gutter, the press is tearing me apart, and I need a distraction."

Azzi stared at her, her eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp anger as she put two and two together in her head. She stood up abruptly from the couch.

"I'm not going to sleep with you for money," Azzi said, her voice shaking with quiet indignance. "I don't care how rich or famous you are, I'm not doing that. I'm leaving."

"No! Wait, Azzi, stop—" Paige scrambled to her feet, holding her hands up in immediate panic, her heart slamming against her ribs. "That is not what I meant! That is not what I want!"

Azzi paused with her hand on the door handle, looking back over her shoulder, still deeply guarded and furious.

"I am so sorry," Paige breathed out, her eyes wide. "I phrased that terribly. I am not asking you to touch me, or sleep with me, or do anything sexual. Ever. That’s not what this is."

Azzi didn't let go of the handle, but she stopped moving. "Then what are you talking about?"

Paige took a slow, stabilizing breath, forcing her voice into a calm, steady rhythm.

"I need a fake relationship," Paige explained clearly. "I need the media to stop talking about my drug problems and start talking about a love story. So here’s my offer: I will give you a place to live in my house; your own bedroom and bathroom, total privacy, complete safety. I will pay off every single penny of whatever debt you have. In exchange, you pretend to be my girlfriend."

Azzi blinked, her mouth opening slightly in sheer shock. "Pretend... to be your girlfriend?"

"That’s it," Paige said firmly. "All you’d have to do is travel with me sometimes, walk a few red carpets, let the paparazzi catch us holding hands, and smile for the camera. Other than that? You have your own life. No physical expectations. Just an arrangement."

Azzi stood frozen by the door, completely speechless, processing the insane scale of the offer.

Paige stepped back, giving her space. "There is zero pressure here. If you say no right now, nothing changes. I won't get you fired, I won't blacklist you, I won't be mean to you on set. You can walk out that door, we forget I ever said this, and I’ll still talk to you like normal tomorrow."

The trailer went dead silent. The weight of the offer hung in the air between them.

Azzi let out a long, shaky breath, her hand slowly slipping off the door handle. She looked at Paige, searching the actress's face for any sign of lie or manipulation, but all she found was raw, desperate honesty.

"I..." Azzi swallowed hard, her voice barely a whisper. "I need to think about it. This is... a lot."

"I know," Paige said gently. She grabbed a small piece of paper from her vanity, scribbled her number on it, and walked over, handing it to Azzi. "Take your time to think about it and call me whenever."

Azzi took the paper, nodding slowly as she tucked it into her pocket. She turned toward the door, but before she could turn the handle, Paige’s voice stopped her once more; dropping into a tone so cold, strict, and serious it made Azzi freeze.

"Azzi. Look at me."

Azzi turned back around. Paige was stepping closer, her expression deadly serious.

"If anybody besides me ever asks you to come into their trailer," Paige said, her voice low and uncompromising, "or a closet, or a back room, or an empty soundstage... you say no. Do you understand me? I don't care if it's the director, the lead actor, a producer, or the studio head. You say no, you turn around, you walk away and come find me."

Azzi stared at her, stunned by the sudden severity in Paige's voice.

"Do you understand me," Paige repeated, stepping closer until she was looking right down into Azzi's eyes. "Promise me you won't go anywhere alone with any of those men."

Azzi swallowed, seeing the genuine fear and care in Paige’s eyes. She gave a firm, clear nod. "I promise. I understand."

Paige relaxed slightly, the tension leaving her shoulders. "Okay. Good."

Azzi gave her one last, lingering look; a mixture of confusion, awe, and something softer, before opening the trailer door and stepping out, leaving Paige alone with her thumping heart.

—

Paige stood on the balcony of her Hollywood Hills home, leaning her forearms against the railing. Below her, the endless sea of city lights stretched out like a glittering grid, but Paige wasn't really looking at the view.

She held a thin cigarette between her index and middle finger, watching the tiny ember glow orange against the dark every time she took a drag.

Her phone sat silent on the glass table behind her. It had been hours since Azzi left her trailer. Paige was practically vibrating with a mix of nervous energy and dread, her mind replaying the conversation over and over. Did I scare her off? Did I sound like a lunatic? What if she quits the internship altogether?

Suddenly, the screen lit up, buzzing against the glass with a loud, sudden vibration that made Paige jump.

She practically dropped her cigarette, flicking it out into the ash tray as she lunged for the phone.

Her heart hammered against her ribs as she tapped the screen awake. An unknown number sat at the top of her notifications:

⁠Unknown: Hey, it’s Azzi. If the offer is still open I’ll do it.⁠

Paige stared at the text, the haze that usually clouded her brain completely evaporating in a single, electric second.

A massive, uncontrollable grin spread across her face; a real, genuine smile that she hadn't felt in years. She bit her lower lip, practically giddy, running a hand through her hair as a breathless laugh escaped her chest. She paced the length of the balcony, clutching the phone to her chest for a second before frantically typing back with flying thumbs:

⁠Paige: It’s open. Send me your address, I’ll pick you up tomorrow afternoon.⁠

The reply came back almost instantly:

⁠Azzi: [Address Sent]⁠

⁠Azzi: See you tomorrow, Paige.⁠

Paige looked at the map pin on her screen, the flutter in her stomach refusing to settle down. For the first time in as long as she could remember, Paige actually couldn't wait for tomorrow.

—

The next afternoon, Paige pulled up to Azzi’s apartment building in a matte-black Range Rover. The neighborhood was modest, a stark contrast to her own, and it only reinforced Paige’s quiet resolve to give Azzi an upgrade.

She tapped the horn twice. Moments later, the front door opened, and Azzi stepped out carrying a single backpack over her shoulder and holding a small duffel bag. She looked ridiculously cute in an oversized sweater and jeans, her dark curls bouncing as she walked down the steps.

Paige immediately killed the engine and hopped out, taking the duffel bag from Azzi’s hand before Azzi could protest.

"Hey," Paige said, her voice dropping into that smooth, quiet register, a small smirk playing on her lips.

"Hey," Azzi smiled, her single dimple making an immediate appearance. She looked up at the SUV, then back at Paige. "I... I packed a few essential things for now, but I wasn't sure how to handle the rest of my room."

"Don't worry about it," Paige said, tossing the bag into the back seat and holding the passenger door open for her. "I'm having movers come by tomorrow to pack up all your clothes and bring it over."

Azzi climbed into the passenger seat, looking a little overwhelmed as Paige rounded the car and slid into the driver's side. As Paige pulled out into traffic, she noticed Azzi’s hands tightly clasped in her lap, her fingers picking nervously at her jeans.

"You okay?" Paige asked, throwing her a quick sideways glance.

"Yeah," Azzi breathed out, letting out a nervous laugh. "Just... super nervous. I've never lived in a mansion, or fake-dated a celebrity..."

Paige chuckled softly, leaning back against her seat with one hand on the steering wheel. "Don't be nervous. The house is nice, and I promise I don't bite."

Azzi let out a soft giggle, the tension instantly melting out of her shoulders.

Twenty minutes later, they pulled through an iron security gate that slid open to reveal Paige’s property.

Azzi’s jaw practically hit her lap. "Paige... this is your house?"

"Yeah," Paige said, parking in the circular driveway.

They stepped out, and Azzi stood in the driveway for a second, just taking it all in; the infinity pool overlooking the city, the floor to ceiling glass walls, the landscaped greenery.

"It’s unreal," Azzi whispered in complete awe, looking around like she had just stepped onto a fairytale. "It’s so clean and gorgeous."

Paige grabbed Azzi’s duffel bag from the trunk, walking up next to her with a amused grin. "Look, don't give me too much credit," Paige said dryly. "It’s only this nice because I pay a team of cleaners to fix my mess three times a week."

Azzi burst out laughing, a bright, clear sound that made Paige’s chest swell with an absurd amount of pride.

"Come on, let me show you your room," Paige said, leading the way inside.

They walked through the entryway and up a grand staircase to the guest room. Paige pushed open a set of double doors at the end of the hall.

The room was huge; larger than Azzi's entire apartment. It featured a king-sized bed, a private balcony overlooking the hills, and a massive ensuite bathroom complete with a deep soaking tub and a rainfall shower.

Azzi stepped inside, her eyes wide as she ran her hand over the duvet, then walked into the bathroom, gasping softly at the marble finishes.

"Paige... this is incredible," Azzi said, turning around with a glowing, radiant smile, her bunny teeth on full display. "I love it. It’s the nicest place I’ve ever seen."

Standing in the doorway with her hands shoved into her hoodie pockets, Paige felt a surge of pure, warm satisfaction hit her right in the center of her chest.

She was completely obsessed with it. Seeing Azzi stand in her house looking genuinely, deeply happy; because of her, was the best drug Paige had ever had.

"I'm glad you like it," Paige said softly, a real, fond smile warming her blue eyes. "It’s all yours."

After Azzi unpacked the few things she brought, Paige led her downstairs to the main living room. The couch was a massive, cloud-like sectional that looked big enough to sleep four people, pushed right up against the glass windows.

Paige tossed her shoes off and slouched into one end of the couch, pulling her knees up to her chest. She patted the spot next to her, watching as Azzi curled up on the cushions, still looking around the space like she couldn't quite believe she lived here now.

"Okay," Paige said, setting her elbow on the back of the couch and resting her chin in her hand, her eyes completely locked onto Azzi. "I need to know everything about you."

Azzi giggled, adjusting the sweater sleeve over her hand. "Alright, hit me. What do you need to know?"

"First, most important question," Paige said with utter seriousness. "Favorite foods. Go."

"Oh, easy," Azzi smiled, starting to count on her fingers. "I love a really good vodka pasta, sushi, chocolate chip cookies... oh, and cottage cheese. I eat it straight out of the tub."

Paige’s face instantly twisted in pure, visceral horror. She leaned back like Azzi had just confessed to a crime. "Cottage cheese? Azzi, no. That is revolting."

"It is not revolting!" Azzi laughed, grabbing a couch pillow and hugging it to her chest as she defended herself. "It’s high protein and delicious! Put a little fruit on it? Incredible."

"Absolutely not," Paige said dryly, though the tiny smirk on her face completely gave her away.

Azzi just shook her head, her dimple popping as she laughed. "Fine. What else?"

"Favorite color?"

"Pink," Azzi answered without missing a beat. "Definitely pink."

Paige’s eyes swept over Azzi, taking a mental note. Pink. Got it. "Flowers?"

"Pink roses," Azzi said softly, her eyes lighting up a little as she thought about it. "Tulips, too. And daisies. Anything pink really."

"Noted," Paige murmured, her mind already mentally ordering a ridiculous amount of pink roses to be delivered to the house tomorrow. "What about travel? Where in the world do you want to go?"

Azzi paused, looking out the giant glass window. "Italy," she said softly, a genuine dreaminess in her voice. "The Amalfi Coast. I’ve wanted to go since I was a little girl. And Paris, obviously. I want to see the old film archives there."

Paige watched the way Azzi’s eyes sparkled when she talked about her dreams. It was intoxicating.

"Consider it on the itinerary," Paige said smoothly.

Azzi looked over, blinking in surprise. "Wait, really?"

"We're supposed to be madly in love, right?" Paige smirked. "In love people go to Paris."

"What about... style? Like, do you like getting dressed up?"

"Oh, absolutely," Azzi said, her face brightening even more. "I love dresses; especially floral ones or anything pink and flowy. I just... haven't had a lot of money to buy nice ones lately."

Paige leaned back, a deep sense of satisfaction settling in her chest. She pictured Azzi in a soft, pink dress, walking a red carpet with her arm tucked into Paige’s.

The harsh lights surrounding Paige’s trailer mirror were humming; a low, buzzing frequency that felt like it was vibrating directly inside her teeth.

Outside, the studio lot was bustling with the chaos of a multi-million dollar thriller production. Inside, it smelled like cheap hairspray, burnt espresso, and the vanilla perfume the lead makeup artist had been slathering on Paige for the past forty-five minutes.

"Keep your eyes up for me," the artist, a soft-spoken woman named Sarah, murmured gently. She tapped a tiny brush under Paige’s eye, trying to conceal the dark, bruised-looking circles that no amount of expensive foundation could entirely hide anymore. "Just blending out the dark circles. Early morning shoots are brutal on everyone, but we’ll have you looking like a movie star in no time."

Paige barely suppressed a bitter snort. Movie star. She stared blindly at her own reflection. At twenty-one, she possessed the kind of cheekbones that directors drooled over; sharp, striking, and undeniably captivating on film. But beneath the layers of foundation and contour, Paige felt like a walking ghost.

Her bleached-blonde hair was pulled back tightly, a leftover artifact of the studio’s desperate, decade-long attempt to package her as America’s girl next door. They had fought her tooth and nail when she started wearing suits, when she refused the dresses, when she stopped hiding who she was. Eventually, when they realized they couldn't force her into a pink sundress without a fight, they just stopped trying to market her image altogether; and leaned into letting the tabloids tear her apart instead.

"Alright, take five while I go grab the FX kit," Sarah said with a sympathetic smile, patting Paige’s shoulder before stepping out of the trailer, letting the cold morning air rush in for a split second before the door clicked shut.

Paige reached into the pocket of her hoodie. Her fingers brushed against the small, metallic foil packet of pills she had stashed there; her daily shield against the weight of existing, but her hand drifted instead toward her phone lying face down on the illuminated vanity station.

She knew she shouldn't look. But Paige was a sadist when it came to her own torture.

Her thumb flicked the screen awake.

HOLLYWOOD'S GOLDEN GIRL GONE WRONG: Inside Paige Bueckers’ Tragic Downward Spiral⁠

Paige swallowed past the dryness in her throat and clicked the link.

The article opened with a photo from her childhood; a nine year old Paige grinning awkwardly on a red carpet, flanked by her mother and father. Her parents had their hands gripped firmly on her shoulders, smiling broadly for the cameras.

To the public, it looked like a picture perfect, supportive family. Paige remembered that exact night: her father had pinched her collarbone so hard to make her stop crying that it had left a bruise, all because she had complained about being tired after an eighteen-hour shoot.

Her eyes dragged down the text, scanning the words as a cold, sickening numbness spread through her chest.

"...It’s the classic tale of Hollywood privilege turned toxic. Bueckers, who was practically handed an acting career on a silver platter by her doting, devoted parents, seems determined to throw it all away. Sources close to the family reveal that Paige was raised in a loving home where her talent was nurtured from the moment she could walk...”

A sharp, ragged breath escaped Paige’s lips. Handed to me? A loving home?

They didn't write about the non-disclosure agreements her parents made her sign when she turned sixteen to keep her from speaking about where her money actually went. They didn't mention the fact that she hadn’t gotten an education beyond eighth grade.

They didn't talk about her mother locking her in a bathroom for six hours because she refused to wear a skirt to an audition, screaming that Paige was going to ruin their lives. Her childhood hadn't been a silver platter. It had been an auction block, and her parents had been the top sellers.

"...Despite having every advantage, a sprawling safety net, and a family that sacrificed everything for her dream, Bueckers has traded her god given talent for late-night benders, missed marks, and suspected substance abuse. Production insiders report that her erratic behavior is putting her latest film in jeopardy..."

Paige stared at the words until they blurred together into meaningless black smudges on the glass.

The hypocrisy of it made her jaw clench so hard her teeth ached. The industry had broken her bones, drained her blood, built a multi million dollar empire on her back before she was even old enough to vote; and now that she was bleeding out in front of them, they called her ungrateful. They framed her as the spoiled brat who wrecked her own fairy tale.

Her vision swam. A hot, angry tear welled in the corner of her eye, threatening to break over her lashes and ruin the forty-five minutes of airbrushed perfection on her face.

No. Don't you dare.

Paige closed her eyes tight, tilting her head back against the chair. She sucked in a long, shaky breath through her nose, holding it until her lungs burned, forcing the emotion back down into the dark, locked box inside her chest where it belonged.

She couldn't cry. Crying meant Sarah would have to redo her makeup. Redoing her makeup meant being late to set. Being late to set meant more articles calling her a diva, an addict, a

failure.

She slowly opened her eyes, her gaze hardening into something cold, distant, and carefully guarded.

The trailer door chimed and swung open.

"Alright, Paige, got the fake blood!" Sarah called out cheerfully, stepping back inside with a plastic tray. She paused, catching Paige's eye in the mirror. "You okay? You look a little pale."

Paige tossed her phone face down onto the counter with a dull clack. She offered a smirk that didn't reach her

eyes, leaning back into the chair with practiced indifference.

"I'm fantastic, Sarah," Paige said, her voice dripping with smooth, hollow sarcasm. "Just eager to go out there."

—

The sound of heavy machinery, yelling crew members, and shifting lighting rigs hit Paige like a blow the second she stepped out of her trailer. The morning sun was painfully bright, slicing through the cool air of the backlot and making the headache thrumming behind her eyes beat to the rhythm of her racing pulse.

She shoved her hands into the pockets of her hoodie, her head tilted down, keeping her eyes fixed on the cracked asphalt beneath her sneakers. Every step felt like walking through wet cement. The pills from last night were wearing off, leaving behind a hollow, jittery hangover that made her skin feel too tight for her body.

"Paige! Finally!"

The sharp, grating voice cut through the ambient noise of the set before she even reached the soundstage door.

It was Marcus, the film’s director. He was pacing near the monitor bank, a rolled-up script clutched in his hand like a club. Marcus was a darling of the thriller scene; brilliant, celebrated, and notoriously cruel to anyone he deemed beneath him. And right now, Paige was at the top of his target list.

He marched straight toward her, stopping barely a foot away. The entire soundstage, sound techs, camera operators, grips, costume assistants, instantly went dead silent. Everyone knew the drill. When Marcus went off, you looked down and prayed you weren’t next.

Marcus glared down at her, his eyes cold and disdainful as he took in her pale skin, the slight tremor in her hands, and the unmistakable exhaustion carved into her features.

"Look at yourself," Marcus spat, his voice carrying clearly across the quiet stage. "Are you serious right now, Paige?"

Paige kept her chin down, staring at the dust on his boots. "I’m ready to shoot."

"Ready?" He laughed, a harsh, humorless sound that made a few crew members flinch. "You look like you’ve been on a three-day bender. Look at your eyes! We are burning fifty thousand dollars an hour while you pull yourself together!"

He stepped closer, leaning in so his voice dropped into that low, venomous tone that hit far harder than yelling ever could.

"You are the most selfish, ungrateful talent I have ever had to work with," he sneered, jabbing a finger at her chest. "Do you have any idea how many brilliant, dedicated actors would crawl over broken glass to stand where you're standing right now? People who actually care about the craft?"

The words stung, but they didn't surprise her. They didn't even make her angry. Because as Paige stood there, absorbing every line of his tirade, a quiet, sickening voice in the back of her mind whispered: He's right.

The articles were right. Marcus was right. Her parents had been right. She was broken, ruined, and spoiled. She had been given the jackpot, a career millions would die for, and all she knew how to do was wreck it. She was a burden to the production, a plague to the crew, a mess of a human being who couldn't even keep her head straight for a shoot.

"I'm sorry, Marcus," she murmured softly, her voice barely audible. There was no defiance in it. No bite. Just a flat, hollow submission that seemed to irritate him even more.

"Save your apology," Marcus snapped, turning his back on her with a wave of his hand. "Just get to your mark. If you ruin this take, I swear to God, Paige."

Paige didn't look up to see who was watching. She could feel the judging eyes of fifty crew members on her back as she walked across the tape-marked floor to her spot near the center of the set.

The scene called for her character; a detective pushed to her absolute limit, to break down after finding a crucial piece of evidence.

She stepped up to the yellow tape on the floor, breathing in the smell of wood dust and stage smoke. She pulled off her hoodie, tossing it aside to reveal the distressed leather jacket of her character. She rolled her shoulders back, shook out her arms, and tilted her head up into the harsh key light.

The hangover was still screaming behind her eyes. The shame from Marcus’s words was still burning like acid in her throat. But as the assistant director called out, "Quiet on set! Roll camera... and... ACTION!" something shifted.

The haunted, hollow look vanished from Paige’s face, replaced instantly by the sharp, desperate intensity of her character. The mask slammed into place so fast, so seamlessly, it was almost horrifying.

She dropped to her knees on the cold concrete, her hands trembling as she picked up the evidence file. Tears; real, furious, agonizing tears born from a lifetime of being torn apart, welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks on command. Her jaw tightened, her breath hitched, and for three breathtaking minutes, Paige Bueckers didn't exist. There was only the raw genius of an actress who could turn her own living nightmare into art.

Across the soundstage, the camera operator stared through the viewfinder, completely breathless. Even Marcus sat back in his director's chair, tight-lipped and silent, unable to deny the terrifying truth:

No matter how broken she was off-camera, the moment the red light turned on, Paige was untouchable.

—

The soundstage doors slammed shut behind Paige, cutting off the heat of the studio lights and the lingering silence of a stunned crew.

She pulled the hood of her jacket low over her head, ignoring the assistant director yelling after her about a scene reset. Paige didn't care. She had delivered her takes, given them her soul on a silver platter, and now she just needed to escape.

She practically sprinted across the backlot to where her black SUV was idling. Tommy, her driver; and one of the only people who didn't talk to her like she was a ticking bomb, held the door open without a word. Paige slid into the back seat, burying her face in her hands the second the door clicked shut.

"Where to?" Tommy asked quietly through the glass partition.

"Annie's office," Paige muttered, her voice muffled against her palms. "She called a couple times while I was in makeup. Let's just get it over with."

Tommy gave a sympathetic nod in the rearview mirror and pulled out of the studio gates into the sprawling, sun-drenched LA traffic.

Twenty minutes later, Paige was riding the elevator up to the top floor of a high-rise in Century City. Annie Vance was a new addition to Paige’s life; she had taken Paige on as a client only six months ago after Paige finally fired her parents' old management team. Annie actually seemed to care whether Paige survived the industry. Paige respected her, which only made facing her right now feel ten times worse.

When the glass elevator doors slid open, Paige pushed past the reception desk and walked straight into the corner office.

Annie was sitting behind her desk, a tablet in hand. She looked exhausted, her eyes tracking over news feeds, but the moment the door clicked, she set the tablet down. There was no anger in Annie's expression; just genuine concern.

"Hey," Annie said softly, standing up from her chair. "Rough morning?"

Paige slumped onto the leather couch in the middle of the room, pulling her knees up to her chest like a shield. "Marcus tore me a new one," she admitted quietly, staring down at her sneakers. "He's not wrong, though. I look like shit and I feel worse."

Annie walked over, and sat on the coffee table right across from Paige. She pushed a bottle of water and a warm coffee toward her.

"Marcus is a jerk who doesn't know how to talk to people," Annie said gently, but her tone carried a serious weight. "But Paige... I'm worried about you. And it's not just Marcus. Look at what came across my desk this morning."

Annie slid a small stack of printouts toward her. Tabloid headlines stared back at Paige: PAIGE BUECKERS: HOLLYWOOD'S LOST CAUSE, THE DOWNWARD SPIRAL, INSIDERS CLAIM BUECKERS IS UNWORKABLE.

"The media is having a field day," Annie sighed, rubbing her temples. "I’ve spent the last three hours on the phone with studio heads trying to keep you on two upcoming projects. They're terrified, Paige. Not because you aren't brilliant; you're the best actress of your generation and everyone knows it, but because the public narrative is out of control. All anyone sees right now is a tragedy in the making. They view you as unsafe, unstable."

Paige stared at the paper stack, feeling a bitter, familiar knot tighten in her chest. She hated how much trouble she was causing the one person who had actually tried to help her.

"I give them everything on camera, Annie," Paige murmured, her voice cracking slightly. "I don't know how to fix the rest of it."

"I know you do," Annie said softly, reaching out to give Paige’s arm an encouraging squeeze. "I know how hard you work. But we need to protect you. We need to flip the script. If we don't give the media something else to talk about, they are going to write your obituary before you even turn twenty-two."

Paige looked up, her bright blue eyes rimmed with red. "What do you mean? What kind of distraction?"

Annie took a slow breath, picking her words carefully. "We give them a love story."

Paige blinked, taking a second to process that. "A... what?"

"A love story," Annie repeated gently. "A relationship. Something that changes the conversation entirely. The public loves a redemption arc, Paige, especially one driven by love. It gives people a reason to root for you again. It gives the studios the reassurance that you have a stable life, a support system, a reason to stay grounded."

Paige stared at her manager, a dry, self-deprecating laugh barking out of her chest. "Annie, are you serious? Have you looked at me lately? No one in their right mind is falling in love with me."

Annie offered a soft, sympathetic smile.

"Well," Annie said quietly, "thank God you act for a living then."

The room went completely silent.

Paige slowly sat up straight, her eyebrows pulling together as the reality of what Annie was proposing hit her. "Wait. No. You can't be serious."

"Paige, listen to me—"

"You want me to fake a relationship?!" Paige pushed herself off the couch, stepping back as panic flared in her chest.

"I want to save your career so you can actually have a future," Annie said urgently, standing up to meet her, her tone full of desperate care rather than malice. "We hire someone. Someone completely outside of this world. Someone sweet, normal, totally untouched by the tabloids. We set up an arrangement. A few photos, a couple of public appearances. After a few months, an engagement. Eventually, a wedding. It gives you a shield, Paige. It buys you time to actually get healthy without the press picking your bones clean every single day."

"A wife?!" Paige repeated, her voice rising in sheer disbelief. "You want me to pay someone to pretend to be my girlfriend? To be my fiancée? Annie, that’s insane! That’s fake, it’s creepy, it’s..."

"It's protection," Annie pleaded softly, holding her hands up. "It’s a business arrangement that keeps the negativity away from you while we rebuild your life. I'm not trying to control you. I'm trying to keep you from getting any worse."

Paige stood in the center of the office, her chest heaving as she stared at Annie. She knew Annie was coming from a place of love and protection; which almost made it harder, but the idea of scripting her private life made her feel sick to her stomach.

"I can't," Paige whispered, her voice trembling. "I can't buy a person to act like they care about me."

"Paige, please just think about—"

"I can't do it, Annie," Paige said firmly, pulling her hood up over her head. "I'm sorry. I just can't."

Before Annie could say another word, Paige turned on her heel and pushed open the office door, heading straight for the elevator to escape before anyone could see the tears stinging her eyes.

—

Paige hadn't slept. Between the hangover, the director’s tirade from yesterday, and Annie’s insane proposal about a fake relationship, her mind had spent the last eight hours running in relentless, exhausting circles.

A soft, hesitant knock echoed against the thin metal door of her trailer.

Paige winced, burying her face in her pillow for a second before pushing herself up. "It’s open!" she called out, her voice rough and gravelly from sleep deprivation.

The door swung inward, and for a second, Paige completely forgot how to breathe.

Standing in the doorway was a girl holding a clipboard.

"Hi, sorry to bother you so early," the girl said, her voice gentle and slightly nervous. "I’m Azzi. Azzi Fudd. I’m the new production intern, I’m going to be helping out around set and assisting you and the rest of the cast."

Paige just sat there on the edge of her trailer couch, frozen.

Her mind went completely quiet as her eyes took Azzi in. The very first thing that hit Paige was just how breathtakingly beautiful she was. Azzi had glowing skin, wide brown eyes, and stunning dark curls that spilled over her shoulders. When Azzi offered a polite, nervous little smile, Paige felt her chest tighten; because the smile revealed the cutest pair of bunny teeth and a single, deep dimple on her cheek that was so gorgeous it was almost unfair.

Jesus, Paige thought, her heart doing a weird, sudden flip.

"I just wanted to drop off today's updated call sheet and check in," Azzi continued, stepping fully inside and setting a paper on the small table. She looked at Paige, her eyes softening with genuine concern as she noticed how exhausted the actress looked. "Is there anything I can get for you to start your morning? Coffee, water... anything at all?"

"Yeah, actually," Paige said, her voice dropping into a quiet, slightly raspy tone. "Some Advil would be amazing. My head feels like it's being hit with a sledgehammer."

"On it," Azzi said instantly, her face lighting up with a warm, eager expression. "I'll be back in two minutes!"

She turned and hurried out, leaving the door ajar. Paige leaned back against the cushions, letting out a breath she didn't realize she’d been holding.

True to her word, Azzi was back in less than two minutes, holding a fresh bottle of water and two pills in her palm.

"Here you go," Azzi said gently, handing them over. She lingered by the doorway, giving Paige space.

"Thanks, Azzi," Paige murmured, tossing the pills back and swallowing them down. "You're a life saver."

"Of course," Azzi smiled, that single dimple making another appearance. "Are you heading down to soundstage four now? I can walk with you."

"Yeah, let's go," Paige muttered, grabbing her jacket and pulling her hood up.

They stepped out into the crisp morning air, walking side by side down the wide asphalt lanes between the massive soundstages. Usually, Paige walked with her head down, rushing to avoid making eye contact with crew members who were whispering about her latest scandal. But with Azzi walking right next to her, the weight on her shoulders felt... lighter.

"So," Paige said, glancing sideways at Azzi, trying to play it smooth while secretly taking in the way the sunlight hit the girl's curls. "How are you liking it here so far? Hollywood keeping you busy?"

Azzi let out a soft, melodic laugh. "Oh, it's chaos, honestly. I'm a production intern, so I expected a lot of running around, but I've mostly been getting yelled at for bringing the wrong brand of almond milk to people." She grinned, looking over at Paige with bright, open eyes. "To be completely honest, you're actually the nicest person I’ve met here so far."

Paige stopped dead in her tracks for a split second, her eyes widening slightly before she forced her feet to keep moving.

The nicest person she's met?

Paige's chest swelled with a sudden, overwhelming warmth. Azzi, sweet, gorgeous, soft-spoken Azzi, was standing right here, looking at her with kindness, completely untainted by the things written about her. She wasn't judging her. She didn't look at Paige like she was broken.

Paige kept her face composed, offering just a small, subtle smirk so she wouldn't embarrass herself, but inside, her heart was beating faster than it had in months.

"Well," Paige said softly, her eyes locking onto Azzi’s with a rare, genuine warmth. "Don't let the secret out. I've got a reputation to maintain."

Azzi giggled, the sound making Paige’s stomach do another flutter.

As they reached the doors of the soundstage, Paige felt a sudden, sharp pang of disappointment that the walk was already over. She didn't want to go inside and pretend to be someone else for twelve hours. She just wanted to stand out here and listen to Azzi talk.

I want to talk to her all the time, Paige realized with terrifying clarity as Azzi held the soundstage door open for her with a sweet smile. I need to keep talking to her.

The break between takes couldn't come fast enough. As soon as Marcus yelled, "Cut! Moving setups!", Paige bypassed her chair, her assistant, and the touch-up crew, her eyes sweeping the crowded perimeter of the soundstage.

She spotted her near the crafts table. Azzi was holding a stack of call sheets, leaning against an equipment trunk and looking exhausted, but the second her eyes met Paige's, her face lit up.

"Hey," Paige said, leaning one shoulder against the wall next to her. "Surviving?"

"Barely," Azzi laughed softly, tucking a curl behind her ear. She looked up at Paige, her eyes wide and full of genuine awe. "I got to watch your last take from behind the monitors, though. You were incredible. Seriously. So, so talented."

Warmth rushed straight to Paige’s face. Coming from Marcus or the producers, compliments felt like business transactions. But from Azzi it felt like winning an Oscar. Paige was absolutely over the moon, her stomach doing backflips as she forced out a casual grin.

"Thanks," Paige said, her voice dropping an octave, soft and genuine.

They talked for a few more minutes before the second assistant director called Paige back to set, leaving Paige floating on a cloud for the rest of the shoot.

By the time wrap was called for the night, the sun had long set, leaving the studio lot bathed in harsh overhead floodlights and cold night air. Paige was exhausted, her bones aching as she walked back toward the row of trailers, her hands buried deep in her jacket pockets.

As she rounded the corner near the equipment trucks, she heard raised male voices and loud, obnoxious laughter.

Paige instinctively slowed her steps. Two of her male co-stars were leaning against a van, holding paper cups of coffee and laughing amongst themselves.

"I'm telling you, man, she’s totally out of her depth," one of them said, tossing his cup into a bin. "I heard the line producer talking. She only got this internship because production took pity on her for being dirt poor."

"Seriously?" the other snickered, leaning in. "Well, she's gorgeous. Shit, maybe she’d be open to a little private arrangement. I’d happily pay her rent if she made it worth my while."

They both burst into loud, disgusting laughter.

Paige’s whole body went rigid.

A cold, blinding fury erupted in her chest, so violent it made her knuckles turn white inside her pockets. Her jaw locked, her breath catching in her throat as she stared at the back of their heads. She wanted to walk over there and smash their faces into the asphalt. She wanted to ruin them. She knew exactly what it felt like to be looked at like a piece of meat, to be talked about like trash by men with power and money; and the thought of them directing that filth at Azzi, potentially acting on it, made Paige’s blood boil with a terrifying intensity.

She didn't confront them. She knew a fight on set would just end up in the news and somehow get blamed on her or cause trouble for Azzi.

Instead, Paige turned sharply on her heel and marched straight to her trailer.

She slammed the door shut, locked it, and yanked her phone out of her pocket with hands that were shaking with adrenaline. She didn't hesitate. She dialed Annie’s number.

Annie picked up on the second ring. "Paige? Is everything okay? Did something happen on set?"

Paige stood in the middle of her trailer, breathing heavily, her eyes fixed on her reflection in the vanity mirror. The dark circles were still there, the exhaustion was still heavy, but for the first time in months, her eyes were sharp, clear, and completely focused.

"Annie," Paige said, her voice dropping into a low, dead-serious tone that made her manager instantly go quiet on the other end of the line. "That fake relationship idea."

There was a brief pause on the phone. "Yeah?"

"I'll do it," Paige said, her heart pounding against her ribs as Azzi's smile and the cruel words of those actors, echoed in her mind. "As long as I get to pick the girl, she’s an intern on set."

Annie was quiet for a long second on the other end of the line, the rustle of papers pausing entirely. "Paige, slow down. An intern? What are you talking about?"

Paige gripped her phone tightly, pacing the narrow floor of her trailer. The anger from earlier was still humming in her veins, but behind it was a sudden, crystal-clear resolve.

"Her name is Azzi Fudd," Paige said, the words tumbling out fast and decisive. "She started today on set. Annie, she's... she’s perfect. She’s gorgeous, she’s so sweet, and the press would eat her up. She likes talking to me."

"Paige…" Annie cautioned, her tone shifting into pragmatic manager mode. "Why would a random intern agree to fake-date a star with your level of public heat?"

"Because she's drowning," Paige said, her voice dropping into a fierce, protective lower register. "She's poor and working her ass off for pennies. I can fix that for her, Annie. I can give her money. I can give her a safe place to live, a comfortable life, a real safety net. It’s a win-win."

Paige paused, her jaw tightening as the scene near the equipment trucks flashed in her mind again.

"And besides," Paige adde, "I already overheard two of my co-stars making disgusting jokes about her. Talking about taking advantage of her financial situation, I could help her."

Annie let out a long breath over the speaker. "Okay. Okay, I hear you.

If you're serious about this, I'll have non-disclosure agreement ready by tonight, and we can—"

"No," Paige cut in sharply.

"No?" Annie sounded confused. "Paige, an NDA is standard procedure for an arrangement like this. You need legal protection—"

"No NDAs," Paige said firmly, leaving zero room for argument. "I’m not putting a contract in her face and treating her like a threat. I’m not gonna make her feel like she’s being controlled or trapped. She’s not gonna run to the tabloids."

Annie was silent for a moment, clearly weighing the risks, but the conviction in Paige's voice was hard to fight.

"Fine," Annie finally agreed with a soft sigh. "But how are you going to approach her? You can't just throw money at a girl and ask her to move in with you."

"I'll handle it," Paige murmured, her eyes softening as she pictured Azzi’s dimpled smile and soft curls. "It will be fine."

—

The next morning, the knock on Paige’s trailer door was soft and hesitant.

Paige pulled the door open to find Azzi standing on the step, holding a steaming cup of coffee from a shop down the street, not the cheap stuff from crafts.

"Hey," Azzi said, her smile instantly appearing, single dimple and all. "I brought you a real vanilla latte. I figured you needed something good before shooting, especially since you have an off day tomorrow. You should really rest up."

Paige took the cup, her fingers brushing against Azzi’s, sending a strange, warm spark up her arm. "Thanks. You're the best." Paige paused, stepping back into the trailer. "Hey... do you have a second? Can you sit down?"

Azzi looked a little surprised, but nodded, stepping inside and taking a seat on the small couch. "Is everything okay?"

Paige shut the trailer door for privacy, before walking over and sitting in the armchair opposite her. She rubbed the back of her neck, suddenly feeling a knot of nerves tight in her throat.

"I overheard some people talking yesterday," Paige started quietly, keeping her eyes fixed on Azzi. "Near the equipment vans. They were... talking about your financial situation."

Azzi’s smile vanished instantly. The color drained from her face, her shoulders squaring up as a defensive, uncomfortable wall slammed up between them. She shifted in her seat, looking down at her hands, her jaw clenching.

"Paige, please," Azzi murmured, her voice tight. "I just came to drop off the coffee. I don't really want to talk about my bank account or debt with—"

"I'm not judging you, Azzi. I swear I'm not," Paige said quickly, leaning forward, her tone urgent and genuine. "Listen to me. As you probably know from every news article on the internet, I am in deep shit right now. My reputation is in the gutter, the press is tearing me apart, and I need a distraction."

Azzi stared at her, her eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp anger as she put two and two together in her head. She stood up abruptly from the couch.

"I'm not going to sleep with you for money," Azzi said, her voice shaking with quiet indignance. "I don't care how rich or famous you are, I'm not doing that. I'm leaving."

"No! Wait, Azzi, stop—" Paige scrambled to her feet, holding her hands up in immediate panic, her heart slamming against her ribs. "That is not what I meant! That is not what I want!"

Azzi paused with her hand on the door handle, looking back over her shoulder, still deeply guarded and furious.

"I am so sorry," Paige breathed out, her eyes wide. "I phrased that terribly. I am not asking you to touch me, or sleep with me, or do anything sexual. Ever. That’s not what this is."

Azzi didn't let go of the handle, but she stopped moving. "Then what are you talking about?"

Paige took a slow, stabilizing breath, forcing her voice into a calm, steady rhythm.

"I need a fake relationship," Paige explained clearly. "I need the media to stop talking about my drug problems and start talking about a love story. So here’s my offer: I will give you a place to live in my house; your own bedroom and bathroom, total privacy, complete safety. I will pay off every single penny of whatever debt you have. In exchange, you pretend to be my girlfriend."

Azzi blinked, her mouth opening slightly in sheer shock. "Pretend... to be your girlfriend?"

"That’s it," Paige said firmly. "All you’d have to do is travel with me sometimes, walk a few red carpets, let the paparazzi catch us holding hands, and smile for the camera. Other than that? You have your own life. No physical expectations. Just an arrangement."

Azzi stood frozen by the door, completely speechless, processing the insane scale of the offer.

Paige stepped back, giving her space. "There is zero pressure here. If you say no right now, nothing changes. I won't get you fired, I won't blacklist you, I won't be mean to you on set. You can walk out that door, we forget I ever said this, and I’ll still talk to you like normal tomorrow."

The trailer went dead silent. The weight of the offer hung in the air between them.

Azzi let out a long, shaky breath, her hand slowly slipping off the door handle. She looked at Paige, searching the actress's face for any sign of lie or manipulation, but all she found was raw, desperate honesty.

"I..." Azzi swallowed hard, her voice barely a whisper. "I need to think about it. This is... a lot."

"I know," Paige said gently. She grabbed a small piece of paper from her vanity, scribbled her number on it, and walked over, handing it to Azzi. "Take your time to think about it and call me whenever."

Azzi took the paper, nodding slowly as she tucked it into her pocket. She turned toward the door, but before she could turn the handle, Paige’s voice stopped her once more; dropping into a tone so cold, strict, and serious it made Azzi freeze.

"Azzi. Look at me."

Azzi turned back around. Paige was stepping closer, her expression deadly serious.

"If anybody besides me ever asks you to come into their trailer," Paige said, her voice low and uncompromising, "or a closet, or a back room, or an empty soundstage... you say no. Do you understand me? I don't care if it's the director, the lead actor, a producer, or the studio head. You say no, you turn around, you walk away and come find me."

Azzi stared at her, stunned by the sudden severity in Paige's voice.

"Do you understand me," Paige repeated, stepping closer until she was looking right down into Azzi's eyes. "Promise me you won't go anywhere alone with any of those men."

Azzi swallowed, seeing the genuine fear and care in Paige’s eyes. She gave a firm, clear nod. "I promise. I understand."

Paige relaxed slightly, the tension leaving her shoulders. "Okay. Good."

Azzi gave her one last, lingering look; a mixture of confusion, awe, and something softer, before opening the trailer door and stepping out, leaving Paige alone with her thumping heart.

—

Paige stood on the balcony of her Hollywood Hills home, leaning her forearms against the railing. Below her, the endless sea of city lights stretched out like a glittering grid, but Paige wasn't really looking at the view.

She held a thin cigarette between her index and middle finger, watching the tiny ember glow orange against the dark every time she took a drag.

Her phone sat silent on the glass table behind her. It had been hours since Azzi left her trailer. Paige was practically vibrating with a mix of nervous energy and dread, her mind replaying the conversation over and over. Did I scare her off? Did I sound like a lunatic? What if she quits the internship altogether?

Suddenly, the screen lit up, buzzing against the glass with a loud, sudden vibration that made Paige jump.

She practically dropped her cigarette, flicking it out into the ash tray as she lunged for the phone.

Her heart hammered against her ribs as she tapped the screen awake. An unknown number sat at the top of her notifications:

⁠Unknown: Hey, it’s Azzi. If the offer is still open I’ll do it.⁠

Paige stared at the text, the haze that usually clouded her brain completely evaporating in a single, electric second.

A massive, uncontrollable grin spread across her face; a real, genuine smile that she hadn't felt in years. She bit her lower lip, practically giddy, running a hand through her hair as a breathless laugh escaped her chest. She paced the length of the balcony, clutching the phone to her chest for a second before frantically typing back with flying thumbs:

⁠Paige: It’s open. Send me your address, I’ll pick you up tomorrow afternoon.⁠

The reply came back almost instantly:

⁠Azzi: [Address Sent]⁠

⁠Azzi: See you tomorrow, Paige.⁠

Paige looked at the map pin on her screen, the flutter in her stomach refusing to settle down. For the first time in as long as she could remember, Paige actually couldn't wait for tomorrow.

—

The next afternoon, Paige pulled up to Azzi’s apartment building in a matte-black Range Rover. The neighborhood was modest, a stark contrast to her own, and it only reinforced Paige’s quiet resolve to give Azzi an upgrade.

She tapped the horn twice. Moments later, the front door opened, and Azzi stepped out carrying a single backpack over her shoulder and holding a small duffel bag. She looked ridiculously cute in an oversized sweater and jeans, her dark curls bouncing as she walked down the steps.

Paige immediately killed the engine and hopped out, taking the duffel bag from Azzi’s hand before Azzi could protest.

"Hey," Paige said, her voice dropping into that smooth, quiet register, a small smirk playing on her lips.

"Hey," Azzi smiled, her single dimple making an immediate appearance. She looked up at the SUV, then back at Paige. "I... I packed a few essential things for now, but I wasn't sure how to handle the rest of my room."

"Don't worry about it," Paige said, tossing the bag into the back seat and holding the passenger door open for her. "I'm having movers come by tomorrow to pack up all your clothes and bring it over."

Azzi climbed into the passenger seat, looking a little overwhelmed as Paige rounded the car and slid into the driver's side. As Paige pulled out into traffic, she noticed Azzi’s hands tightly clasped in her lap, her fingers picking nervously at her jeans.

"You okay?" Paige asked, throwing her a quick sideways glance.

"Yeah," Azzi breathed out, letting out a nervous laugh. "Just... super nervous. I've never lived in a mansion, or fake-dated a celebrity..."

Paige chuckled softly, leaning back against her seat with one hand on the steering wheel. "Don't be nervous. The house is nice, and I promise I don't bite."

Azzi let out a soft giggle, the tension instantly melting out of her shoulders.

Twenty minutes later, they pulled through an iron security gate that slid open to reveal Paige’s property.

Azzi’s jaw practically hit her lap. "Paige... this is your house?"

"Yeah," Paige said, parking in the circular driveway.

They stepped out, and Azzi stood in the driveway for a second, just taking it all in; the infinity pool overlooking the city, the floor to ceiling glass walls, the landscaped greenery.

"It’s unreal," Azzi whispered in complete awe, looking around like she had just stepped onto a fairytale. "It’s so clean and gorgeous."

Paige grabbed Azzi’s duffel bag from the trunk, walking up next to her with a amused grin. "Look, don't give me too much credit," Paige said dryly. "It’s only this nice because I pay a team of cleaners to fix my mess three times a week."

Azzi burst out laughing, a bright, clear sound that made Paige’s chest swell with an absurd amount of pride.

"Come on, let me show you your room," Paige said, leading the way inside.

They walked through the entryway and up a grand staircase to the guest room. Paige pushed open a set of double doors at the end of the hall.

The room was huge; larger than Azzi's entire apartment. It featured a king-sized bed, a private balcony overlooking the hills, and a massive ensuite bathroom complete with a deep soaking tub and a rainfall shower.

Azzi stepped inside, her eyes wide as she ran her hand over the duvet, then walked into the bathroom, gasping softly at the marble finishes.

"Paige... this is incredible," Azzi said, turning around with a glowing, radiant smile, her bunny teeth on full display. "I love it. It’s the nicest place I’ve ever seen."

Standing in the doorway with her hands shoved into her hoodie pockets, Paige felt a surge of pure, warm satisfaction hit her right in the center of her chest.

She was completely obsessed with it. Seeing Azzi stand in her house looking genuinely, deeply happy; because of her, was the best drug Paige had ever had.

"I'm glad you like it," Paige said softly, a real, fond smile warming her blue eyes. "It’s all yours."

After Azzi unpacked the few things she brought, Paige led her downstairs to the main living room. The couch was a massive, cloud-like sectional that looked big enough to sleep four people, pushed right up against the glass windows.

Paige tossed her shoes off and slouched into one end of the couch, pulling her knees up to her chest. She patted the spot next to her, watching as Azzi curled up on the cushions, still looking around the space like she couldn't quite believe she lived here now.

"Okay," Paige said, setting her elbow on the back of the couch and resting her chin in her hand, her eyes completely locked onto Azzi. "I need to know everything about you."

Azzi giggled, adjusting the sweater sleeve over her hand. "Alright, hit me. What do you need to know?"

"First, most important question," Paige said with utter seriousness. "Favorite foods. Go."

"Oh, easy," Azzi smiled, starting to count on her fingers. "I love a really good vodka pasta, sushi, chocolate chip cookies... oh, and cottage cheese. I eat it straight out of the tub."

Paige’s face instantly twisted in pure, visceral horror. She leaned back like Azzi had just confessed to a crime. "Cottage cheese? Azzi, no. That is revolting."

"It is not revolting!" Azzi laughed, grabbing a couch pillow and hugging it to her chest as she defended herself. "It’s high protein and delicious! Put a little fruit on it? Incredible."

"Absolutely not," Paige said dryly, though the tiny smirk on her face completely gave her away.

Azzi just shook her head, her dimple popping as she laughed. "Fine. What else?"

"Favorite color?"

"Pink," Azzi answered without missing a beat. "Definitely pink."

Paige’s eyes swept over Azzi, taking a mental note. Pink. Got it. "Flowers?"

"Pink roses," Azzi said softly, her eyes lighting up a little as she thought about it. "Tulips, too. And daisies. Anything pink really."

"Noted," Paige murmured, her mind already mentally ordering a ridiculous amount of pink roses to be delivered to the house tomorrow. "What about travel? Where in the world do you want to go?"

Azzi paused, looking out the giant glass window. "Italy," she said softly, a genuine dreaminess in her voice. "The Amalfi Coast. I’ve wanted to go since I was a little girl. And Paris, obviously. I want to see the old film archives there."

Paige watched the way Azzi’s eyes sparkled when she talked about her dreams. It was intoxicating.

"Consider it on the itinerary," Paige said smoothly.

Azzi looked over, blinking in surprise. "Wait, really?"

"We're supposed to be madly in love, right?" Paige smirked. "In love people go to Paris."

"What about... style? Like, do you like getting dressed up?"

"Oh, absolutely," Azzi said, her face brightening even more. "I love dresses; especially floral ones or anything pink and flowy. I just... haven't had a lot of money to buy nice ones lately."

Paige leaned back, a deep sense of satisfaction settling in her chest. She pictured Azzi in a soft, pink dress, walking a red carpet with her arm tucked into Paige’s.