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CHAPTER1

NORA

I’ve just read the final line of today’s table read, but my performance—the performance of me—isn’t over until I get out of here.

“Great job everyone,” Jo, our showrunner, says. “Stella,” she addresses my co-star. “I just want to make sure you—”

Jo’s interrupted by a loud knock on the door. Before anyone can reply, the door opens. After three decades in this business, it’s no surprise to me. Too many TV executives believe every closed door is always open for them—and that’s hardly the worst of it.

We all look at the door, at the person so out of touch with the creative process of making television that they interrupt with no qualms.

I am surprised that the intruder is a woman. I’d say she’s late fifties, but I’m fifty-one and, even though she doesn’t look old, she’s definitely older than me. Or maybe she hasn’t had as much Botox.

She has that air of importance executives in this business like to carry around with them, as if to say: I’m here now, so you’d better stop whatever it is you’re doing, even if that’s the slow, difficult process of making art.

Her raven black hair is shoulder-length, her heels impressively high for a woman older than me. Her suit is high-end and stark white. Her makeup flawless. Everything about her screams money.

Jo jumps out of her chair.

“Ms. St James,” she says. “You’re a little early.”

“Am I?” Ms. St James shrugs. “Maybe you’re running late.” It doesn’t sound like a question. She plasters on a practiced smile.

Jo turns to us and gives an eye roll. “Everyone, please meet Michelle St James.”

“Thanks, Jo.” Michelle St James widens her smile. The crinkles around her eyes deepen. Definitely not a fan of Botox then—maybe to her credit. “Sorry for interrupting.” If this is what sorry looks like, I might have to revise how my character acts apologetic on the show we’re trying to make. “Please, continue. Pretend I’m not here.”

“That’s okay,” Jo says. “We were as good as done.” Way to stand your ground, Jo.

“Wow,” Stella mutters under her breath. “Who is this woman that’s got Jo all whipped?”

I lean in so that I am close to her ear. “The money,” I whisper.

“I wanted to stop by while you’re all gathered here to introduce myself. I’m the new CEO at Gloves Off Productions. I’m replacing Gerry, for reasons I’m sure you’re all aware of.” Her gaze drifts along the table, but doesn’t land anywhere. “I’m a very hands-on boss, absolutely no pun intended.” A touch of warmth reaches her smile. “Making television is my life, and this show is one of our company’s biggest assets. This means I’ll be around much more than my predecessor. I like to know what’s happening on my sets.”Mysets? Also, doesn’t she have better things to do with her precious time? Crunch some numbers? Analyze some data? Count her money?

“Ms. St James will be an executive producer this season,” Jo chimes in. Her tone is as tense as her face. I’m guessing she didn’t get a choice in the matter. But who am I to complain? This is onlyUnbreak My Heart’s third season and both Stella and I are getting producer credits already.

A couple of the actual producers—the people who put in all the grunt work—shuffle in their seats. But this is how things go. Hollywood has never been a fair town and showbiz has never been a fair business based only on merit. Still, it’s odd for the CEO of the production company to demand this kind of role. I wonder if she’ll become executive producer on all the shows her company produces.

“I adore this show so it’s a great honor and privilege,” Michelle says. Her eyebrows twitch lightly as she locks her gaze on Jo for a second.

“Oh, yes.” Jo shoots Stella and me an apologetic smile before continuing. “Ms. St James would like to invite the leads to lunch.”

Before we can possibly protest, Jo says, “Today.”

Excuse me?Who does Michelle St James think she is to just rock up here and overhaul our schedules like this? As if there’s nothing to it? As if when she says jump, our only option is to ask how high?

“Sure,” Stella says, as expected. She’s the kind of person who doesn’t mind an impromptu change of schedule. Luckily, I’ve been around long enough to know that a carefully planned day is as much an illusion as the stories we tell on screen. It still irks me, though, that this woman can just waltz in here under the guise of wanting to meet us, when she’s clearly looking to throw around her weight.

“Of course.” I send her the fakest smile from my vast repertoire. “I’d be delighted.”

“Wonderful. I look forward to it.” Michelle St James turns on her stilettos and saunters out of the room.

“Way to make an entrance,” Stella says, reaching for her phone.

“Don’t you want to get home?” I ask.

Stella shakes her head. “One tiger mama is enough for my baby boy.” She scrolls through a few pictures that her partner, Kate, has sent while her phone was on silent. “Be still my heart. Will you look at this, Nora?” She thrusts the phone in my face. To me, it doesn’t look all that different from the gazillion pictures of Silas I’ve already had to admire.