Page 11 of Flipping the Script

THE ART OF FAKE IT TILL YOU MAKE IT

T he sleek glass walls of Iris Delacroix's office reflected Quinn's rigid posture back at her from three different angles, none of them flattering.

She sat perched on the edge of a modernist chair that probably cost more than her monthly rent, watching Carmen Luna Rodriguez adjust professional lighting equipment around a minimalist white backdrop that screamed "magazine spread.

" The whole setup felt like preparation for surgery rather than media training.

"This is going to be painless," Iris said, though her shark-like smile suggested otherwise. "Think of it as acting class meets corporate presentation."

Solen fidgeted with her vintage compass necklace, the brass catching the studio lights as she shifted in her chair. Unlike Quinn's death grip on her leather notebook, Solen appeared almost relaxed—if you ignored the way her foot bounced against the chair leg in a nervous rhythm.

"Right, painless," Solen muttered. "Like a root canal."

Carmen looked up from her camera settings, dark eyes amused. "Trust me, I've photographed actual root canals for a dental magazine. This is definitely more fun."

Quinn's pen hovered over a fresh page in her notebook, ready to document whatever systematic approach would get them through this with minimal emotional carnage.

She'd researched media training techniques until two in the morning, cross-referencing celebrity couple interviews for successful body language patterns.

Knowledge meant control, and control meant survival.

"Let's start with the basics," Iris announced, settling behind her desk with the air of a general preparing for battle. "Relationship timeline. Quinn, how did you two meet?"

The rehearsed answer rolled off Quinn's tongue with mechanical precision. "We met through our mutual interest in the project. Solen's approach to character development immediately impressed me with its?—"

"Stop." Iris held up a manicured hand. "You sound like you're defending a thesis. Try again, but this time pretend you have actual human emotions."

Heat crept up Quinn's neck. She cleared her throat, gripping her pen tighter. "We met when she was cast in my screenplay. I was struck by her?—"

"Her beautiful eyes," Solen interrupted smoothly, shooting Quinn a sideways glance. "The way they light up when she talks about storytelling. You should see her at work—it's like watching someone solve the most elegant puzzle."

The words flowed naturally from Solen's lips, painted with just the right amount of affection and specific detail. Quinn stared at her, momentarily forgetting they were supposed to be performing.

"Perfect," Iris said, making notes. "Solen reads as authentic, Quinn reads as a very nervous robot. Solen, your turn. What attracted you to Quinn?"

"Her intensity," Solen said without hesitation. "Most people see the organization and think she's cold, but there's this fire underneath. She writes love like someone who understands it completely but won't let herself have it."

Quinn's pen slipped across the page, leaving an uncharacteristic slash of ink. Where had that come from? More importantly, why did it sound so... accurate?

"Excellent. Quinn, same question about Solen."

Quinn's mind went completely blank. She looked at Solen—really looked—taking in the way afternoon light caught the auburn in her hair, how her hands moved expressively even when she wasn't talking, the small scar above her left eyebrow that suggested stories Quinn didn't know yet.

"She..." Quinn faltered, then caught herself. "She makes everything more interesting. Even when she's completely changing my dialogue."

Solen grinned. "See? Fire underneath."

Carmen snapped a candid shot of them looking at each other, the camera's click barely audible. "Keep that energy. Now let's try some test shots for the magazine features."

The backdrop loomed like a challenge as they positioned themselves in front of it. Carmen's instructions sounded simple enough—"look comfortable with casual intimacy"—but Quinn's shoulders immediately locked into their defensive position the moment Solen's arm settled around her waist.

"Breathe, Quinn," Carmen coached gently. "You're supposed to be in love, not having a dental procedure."

"Maybe I should try the root canal instead," Quinn muttered, making Solen laugh—a genuine, surprised sound that made Quinn's stomach do something complicated.

"Better," Carmen said, snapping away. "Solen, pull her a little closer. Quinn, try not to look like you're being held hostage."

Solen's hand was warm against Quinn's lower back, her touch light but steady. Quinn could smell her perfume—something citrusy and green that reminded her of summer gardens—and found herself leaning slightly into the contact before catching herself.

"Now look at each other like you're sharing a secret," Carmen directed.

Solen turned toward Quinn, her brown eyes dancing with something that might have been mischief. "What's the most rebellious thing you've ever done?"

The question caught Quinn off guard. "That's not—we're supposed to be posing."

"I am posing. Answer the question."

Quinn hesitated, hyperaware of Carmen's camera capturing every micro-expression. "I once turned in a screenplay three hours before deadline instead of three days early."

Solen's smile widened. "Scandalous. I'm surprised the industry hasn't blacklisted you."

"What about you?"

"I may have convinced a foster family's neighbor that I was actually British for an entire summer. Complete with accent and fake backstory about my parents being archaeologists."

Quinn found herself genuinely curious despite their artificial circumstances. "Why British?"

"Seemed more interesting than the truth. Plus, they kept giving me tea and biscuits."

Carmen lowered her camera, grinning. "Whatever you're doing, keep doing it. That looked completely natural."

Because it felt natural, Quinn realized with growing unease. Which was exactly the problem.

Iris stepped into the frame, studying them with the calculating gaze of someone who moved pieces on a very expensive chessboard.

"We need to address the physical contact issue.

Industry insiders specialize in spotting fake relationships, and right now Quinn's body language screams 'professional associate' rather than 'romantic partner. '"

"I'm not good at performing emotions I don't feel," Quinn admitted, her honesty surprising everyone, including herself.

Solen's expression softened. "Maybe that's because you're thinking of it as performing. What if we just... got to know each other better? As friends?"

The suggestion was reasonable, logical even.

Quinn felt a jolt of recognition. Solen was right.

The careful facade they were building for the cameras was starting to feel less like a costume and more like a second skin, fueled by genuine curiosity and connection.

But her chest tightened at the idea of deliberately lowering her carefully maintained walls even further.

Friendship meant vulnerability, and vulnerability meant the possibility of disappointment.

Still, their current approach was clearly failing.

"Strategic relationship building," Quinn said, as if labeling it would make it safer.

"Sure," Solen agreed easily. "Strategic."

Iris resumed firing questions at them—hypothetical scenarios about red carpet interviews, tabloid speculation, invasive personal questions.

Quinn tried to relax, to channel the easy warmth she'd glimpsed between them moments earlier, but every question reminded her how much of herself she'd have to reveal to make this work.

"Let's try a mock interview," Iris announced, switching into entertainment journalist mode. "Diego Santos Rivera from Entertainment Weekly. 'Quinn, Solen, you've both been quite private about your personal lives. What made you decide to go public with this relationship?'"

Quinn started with another rehearsed response about "finding the right person at the right time," but the words died in her throat when she saw Solen's encouraging nod. Something about the actress's genuine attention made Quinn want to try harder.

"We couldn't hide it," Quinn said instead, surprising herself with the emotional honesty in her voice. "When something real happens, it shows."

Solen reached over and gently squeezed Quinn's hand. The contact was brief, casual, but it sent warmth shooting up Quinn's arm. "Plus, Quinn's terrible at pretending she doesn't feel things."

"I am not terrible at—" Quinn stopped, realizing the protest proved Solen's point. "Okay, maybe I'm terrible at pretending."

Carmen captured the moment—Quinn's indignant expression melting into reluctant amusement, Solen's delighted laughter, their hands still loosely connected.

When she showed them the image on her camera display, Quinn stared at it in fascination.

They looked like a couple who actually enjoyed each other's company.

"That," Iris said with satisfaction, "is what we're aiming for."

During their break, Quinn retreated to her notebook, trying to analyze what had worked and what hadn't.

Her systematic approach demanded documentation, patterns, replicable results.

But every time she tried to reduce their successful moments to bullet points, something essential slipped through her analytical framework.

Solen appeared beside her with two cups of coffee from Iris's espresso machine—Quinn's prepared exactly how she liked it, which meant Solen had been paying attention during their dinner conversation.

"Hard to capture in notes?" Solen asked, settling into the chair beside her.

"I'm trying to identify the variables that led to authentic-appearing chemistry," Quinn said, then winced at how clinical that sounded.

"Maybe the authentic part is the problem with your approach."

Quinn looked up from her notebook. "Meaning?"

"You're trying to manufacture genuine moments. But the moments that worked happened when we forgot we were supposed to be performing."

The observation was annoyingly perceptive. Quinn had built her entire career on the premise that emotion could be structured, controlled, crafted with the same precision as a well-plotted screenplay. The idea that authenticity might require surrendering that control felt dangerous.

"I calculated our success rate based on this session," Quinn said, tapping her pen against the page. "At our current performance level, we have approximately a thirty percent chance of convincing industry insiders at the upcoming events."

Solen was quiet for a long moment, studying Quinn with an expression that felt uncomfortably penetrating. "What if we spent some time together outside of official training? Not practicing being fake girlfriends, just... getting to know each other as real people."

"That's not part of the agreed parameters?—"

"Quinn." Solen's voice was gentle but firm. "We can't build fake intimacy on top of being strangers. If you want this to work, we need some kind of actual foundation."

The logic was sound, even if the implications terrified Quinn. She looked at her notebook, filled with charts and timelines and strategic objectives, none of which addressed the fundamental problem: you couldn't fake genuine connection without having some genuine connection to fake.

Iris returned before Quinn could formulate a response, her expression suggesting the break was over and their performance scores still needed improvement.

"Round two," Iris announced. "This time we're working on casual physical affection. Hand-holding, brief touches, the kind of unconscious contact that suggests comfortable intimacy."

Quinn's instinctual response was to stiffen, but Solen's earlier words echoed in her mind. Maybe the resistance itself was the problem. Maybe authenticity required stepping outside her comfort zone instead of trying to control her way through it.

When Solen offered her hand, Quinn took it instead of pulling away.

Solen's fingers were warm, her grip confident but not demanding.

They practiced simple gestures—Solen adjusting a strand of Quinn's hair that had escaped her careful bun, Quinn brushing an imaginary piece of lint from Solen's shoulder, the kind of casual attentiveness that couples developed over time.

"Much better," Carmen observed, capturing their improved chemistry. "You're starting to look like you actually like each other."

"Shocking development," Solen said dryly, making Quinn smile despite herself.

As the session wound down, Iris scheduled additional coaching appointments for the following week, noting areas that still needed work—Quinn's tendency to overthink mid-gesture, Solen's occasional overcompensation when Quinn withdrew.

The feedback was detailed and constructive, but Quinn couldn't shake the feeling that all their technical improvements were missing something fundamental.

"I think," Quinn said as they gathered their belongings, "we should have dinner tonight."

Both Solen and Iris looked at her in surprise.

"For strategic relationship building," Quinn added quickly, then forced herself to be more honest. "To work on creating the authentic foundation you mentioned.

If we're going to convince anyone we're capable of genuine feelings, we should probably know basic facts about each other beyond our professional achievements. "

Solen's smile was soft and genuinely pleased. "Strategic relationship building. I like it."

Quinn closed her notebook with more force than necessary, decisions crystallizing in her mind despite her better judgment.

The analytical part of her brain recognized this as a calculated risk—trading some emotional safety for improved performance outcomes.

But standing there in Iris's perfectly appointed office, watching Solen's face light up at the invitation, Quinn suspected her motivations were more complicated than simple strategy.

Which was, she reflected as they made plans for dinner, exactly what she'd been afraid of.