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I haven’t read the emails, but I would guess they involve normal work stuff. That seems to be what pisses her off most. “Ridiculous.”

Just smile and nod. Those penguins in Madagascar knew their shit.

“I just—look at me, Luna.” I look up, my chest constricting around my ribs. “Men have it so easy, especially in this fucking business. Women eat each other alive like it isn’t the men with their cocks hanging out at holiday parties ruining our lives and careers. Women have to have each other’s backs. And I have yours.”

My hands slide off my keyboard. Did Romy put something in my sandwich?

And right as I think Alice is making a breakthrough into a compassionate person, my phone rings.

“Alice Dadamo’s office,” I say. “One moment.” I put the phone on hold. “Devon.”

He’s one of her few acting clients, a filmmaker who stars in his own YouTube Shorts. Cool style, but not my thing. Still, I’ll put his videos on if I have to turn my brain off during work but can’t go on Twitter.

Alice frowns. “I’ll call him back.”

I take the line off hold. “She’s unavailable right now. Can we return?”

I hang up.

“Say ‘we’ll return.’ Your phrasing is weak.”

My ears go hot. Real Human Alice was nice while she lasted. “Of course. Sorry.”

“And don’t say ‘sorry.’ Goddamn it, you millennials are so weak.”

I could mention she’s a cusp millennial and I’m Gen Z, but I won’t. I look back to my emails. Less than twelve hours until the movie with Romy tonight.

“I can’t get over those emails from John’s lawyer.” I’m not given time to reply. “What business does he think he’s in? Sorry, you don’t get time off for your kids. This whole hustle is for your kids. You know what I did for my kids? When my daughter was four and I was driving her and her little friend to my house and my star client called, I pulled over and had them join some kiddie birthday party on the first lawn I saw.”

A look of abject horror crosses my features. Of course it does. But it lasts only a split second. One of the many skills I’ve had to learn for this job.

“Yeah, I mean, you gotta make sacrifices. Be innovative.”

That and the lying. I have heavy Yom Kippurs lately.

She slaps the desk. “Exactly!”

A moment of silence. Just the sound of me writing out an email for a client who’s got a meeting on the Disney lot this week, explaining exactly how to drive into the lot and find a producer’s office.

“Call Devon back.”

I drop the typing, call Devon. Return to my typing. “Devon, you’re on with Alice.”

I press the Mute button, but the conversation still filters through my headset. It’s not a big deal when I’m outside—I’m expected to take notes on most client calls—but watching Alice’s body language go completely relaxed just feels awkward here. It’s as if I’m not supposed to listen if I can hear Alice without the filter of the phone line. They didn’t talk about this in the mailroom.

Devon’s voice filters through the call, deep and smooth. “I mean, look, the damage control is done, but it’s just wild, y’know? You say your dumbest thoughts on Twitter and it just blows up.”

My heart leaps a little. Twitter? Devon has a publicist, but I should be on top of whatever he said. I type his Twitter handle into my browser as the phone call goes on.

“Look, Devon, what you said wasn’t that bad,” Alice says, her faux nice voice back on.

I find the tweet instantly. It’s been ratio’d. Hard. Thousands of replies to a hundred likes.

Sorry, but if you don’t identify as straight, don’t drop into the DMs, ladies. I’m not here for indecisive chicks.

My heart sinks so hard and fast I’d swear it turned into a rock.

“No, Alice, I get it,” Devon says. “I…It’s complicated, y’know? I just think I should be able to say what’s on my mind if it’s honest and not get attacked.”