Page 13 of Flipping the Script

UNDER THE LIGHTS

T he three dresses laid across Quinn's bed looked like evidence of a crime she couldn't solve.

Each hung perfectly pressed on its respective hanger—a midnight blue sheath that screamed "safe choice," a burgundy number with dangerous cutouts that whispered "completely out of character," and a forest green wrap dress that fell somewhere between professional and "please don't let me trip on live television. "

Quinn's phone buzzed for the fourteenth time in ten minutes. Social media notifications, reminders from Iris, a text from her mother asking if she'd remembered to eat lunch. Nothing from Solen, who should have arrived twenty minutes ago for their coordinated prep session.

The Golden Horizon Theater premiere started in exactly ninety-seven minutes. Quinn's internal timeline, color-coded and cross-referenced with traffic patterns, had already shifted from green to yellow to a concerning shade of orange that made her palms sweat.

She picked up the forest green dress, held it against her body in the full-length mirror, and immediately put it back down.

The burgundy felt too bold, too much like someone else entirely.

The midnight blue looked like what Quinn Virelle would wear—which was either perfect or completely missing the point.

A knock at her apartment door sent relief flooding through her chest. Finally.

"I know, I know, I'm late and you probably have a color-coordinated schedule that I've completely destroyed.

" Solen burst through the doorway carrying what appeared to be half a boutique's worth of garment bags.

"My stylist had a family emergency, but I raided three different closets and brought backup options that'll work with whatever you choose. "

She paused in Quinn's living room, taking in the precisely arranged space with its clean lines and carefully curated book collection. "This is so beautifully you. Like if organization and good taste had a baby."

"Did you just compliment my apartment's reproductive potential?"

"I'm nervous and saying weird things. Also, you look stunning already." Solen gestured at Quinn's perfectly applied base makeup and half-finished hair. "Are we doing romantic glamour or power couple chic tonight?"

Quinn found herself smiling despite the ticking clock in her head. "I have three options that span the complete range from 'please ignore me' to 'someone call security.'"

"Show me everything."

Twenty minutes later, Quinn stood in her bathroom wearing the forest green dress while Solen worked on her eyeliner with surgeon-like precision.

The close proximity required Quinn to grip the marble countertop as Solen's fingers steadied against her cheek, warm and gentle and entirely too distracting.

"Stop thinking so hard," Solen murmured, her breath soft against Quinn's temple. "I can literally feel your brain spinning from here."

"I'm calculating optimal photo angles and mentally reviewing talking points about our relationship timeline. Standard pre-event preparation."

"Mmm. And what does your preparation say about the part where I put my hand on your lower back during photos?"

Quinn's breath caught as Solen's thumb traced along her jawline, ostensibly checking the eyeliner's placement. "That it's an excellent way to demonstrate comfortable physical intimacy without appearing overly sexual for family-friendly media coverage."

"Right. Completely strategic." Solen capped the eyeliner and stepped back to examine her work. "Your turn to fix my hair situation. I may have stress-touched it during the drive over."

Switching places felt like an intricate dance in the small space.

Quinn gathered Solen's auburn waves, working her fingers through the soft strands to restore their styled shape.

In the mirror, she watched Solen's eyes drift closed at the gentle touch, her shoulders relaxing in a way that made Quinn's chest tighten.

"Much better," Quinn said quietly, though her hands lingered at the base of Solen's neck longer than necessary.

"Thank you." Solen's eyes opened, meeting Quinn's in the mirror reflection. "For all of this. I know having your timeline disrupted probably makes you want to reorganize something alphabetically."

"I reorganized my spice rack this morning, actually. Feeling much better."

The laugh that bubbled up from Solen was genuine and infectious, transforming her face in a way that made Quinn's carefully planned composure flutter dangerously.

The black car Iris had arranged felt smaller than anticipated. Quinn sat with her back perfectly straight, reviewing her mental checklist while trying not to notice how Solen's dress had ridden up slightly, exposing a stretch of thigh that the car's leather seat seemed designed to highlight.

"Okay, if they ask about our first kiss," Solen said, practicing breathing exercises that made her collarbones rise and fall in Quinn's peripheral vision, "we stick with the story about the late-night script session, right?"

"That's the agreed-upon narrative. Romantic but professional, spontaneous but not inappropriate workplace behavior." Quinn checked her phone for the seventh time. "Traffic is optimal. We should arrive within our target window."

"And if someone asks what you love most about me?"

Quinn glanced up from her phone, meeting Solen's eyes directly for the first time since getting in the car. The question hung between them, loaded with implications that extended far beyond their rehearsed talking points.

"Your creative instincts," Quinn said, the prepared answer feeling strange on her tongue. "The way you bring unexpected depth to every scene."

Solen's smile was soft and unreadable. "That's a good answer."

"It's an honest answer."

The Golden Horizon Theater rose before them like something from old Hollywood dreams, all art deco glamour and sweeping curves. Photographers lined the red carpet three deep, their camera flashes creating a constant strobe effect that turned the evening into something surreal and overwhelming.

Quinn's analytical mind immediately began cataloguing details—camera positions, interview stations, the strategic placement of step-and-repeat backdrops.

But when Solen's hand slipped into hers as they stepped from the car, warm and steady and real, everything else faded to manageable background noise.

"Ready?" Solen's thumb traced across Quinn's knuckles.

"Ready."

The first few photo stops felt like underwater choreography—Quinn's careful posture adjustments, Solen's practiced angles, both of them finding their rhythm under the blazing lights.

But somewhere around the third backdrop, something shifted.

Solen's whispered comment about how stunning Quinn looked wasn't delivered to the photographers; it was meant for Quinn alone, soft against her ear in a way that sent warmth spreading through her chest.

"That's perfect, ladies! Now give us something more intimate!"

Quinn felt Solen's hand settle at her lower back, precisely where they'd discussed. But the gentle pressure, the way Solen's fingers spread against the silk fabric, felt nothing like their practiced positioning sessions.

"You're doing amazing," Solen murmured, her smile bright for the cameras but her words meant only for Quinn. "Look at you, completely owning this."

The encouragement steadied Quinn's racing pulse in a way no breathing exercise ever had.

When fans called Solen's name from behind the barriers, Quinn felt the slight tension that ran through Solen's frame and instinctively stepped closer, offering silent support that Solen accepted with a grateful glance.

"Quinn! Solen! Over here!" Diego Santos Rivera approached them with his recording equipment and that professional smile that had grace-noted a dozen entertainment shows. "Mind if we chat for a few minutes?"

"Of course," Solen said, and Quinn watched her face transform as she shifted into interview mode—still genuine, but polished in a way that reminded Quinn that Solen was, above all else, a tremendously skilled performer.

"So tell me, how did you two actually meet? I know it was through this project, but what was that first moment like?"

Solen launched into their prepared story about the script read-through, her voice warm with manufactured nostalgia. But when she described Quinn's passion for the material, something authentic crept into her tone that made Quinn's breath catch.

"Quinn," Diego turned to her with practiced ease, "what would you say you love most about Solen?"

The prepared answer sat ready on Quinn's tongue. Creative instincts. Unexpected depth. Safe, professional, completely true in a limited way.

"She sees possibilities I never considered," Quinn heard herself saying instead. "I write these carefully structured scenes, and Solen finds the spaces between the words where real life happens. She makes everything more honest."

Solen's eyes widened slightly, a flush rising across her cheeks that had nothing to do with the camera lights. The answer had surprised them both—not because it was untrue, but because it was more honest than their situation was supposed to require.

"That's beautiful," Diego said, and Quinn could tell he meant it. "And Solen, how does it feel being with someone who appreciates your creative process?"

"Like coming home," Solen said simply, her eyes still on Quinn. "Like finding someone who understands that love and art both require risk."

The photographer materialized beside them before Quinn could fully process the implications of Solen's words. Carmen, Quinn remembered from their prep materials. Known for capturing authentic moments rather than posed perfection.

"Ladies, can you give me 'the look'? You know, like you're completely in love?"

Quinn's analytical mind catalogued the absurdity of it—being asked to perform love under blazing lights while hundreds of people watched. But when she turned to meet Solen's gaze, the absurdity dissolved into something much more dangerous.

Solen's expression held none of the polished performance Quinn had expected.

Instead, there was something vulnerable and questioning, as if she was seeing Quinn clearly for the first time.

Her eyes, warm brown under the lights, seemed to be asking a question Quinn wasn't sure she was ready to answer.

The camera clicks faded into background noise. Quinn felt her breath catch as Solen's thumb traced across her hand—a gesture too small for the photographers to capture but intimate enough to make Quinn's carefully maintained composure crack around the edges.

"Perfect," Carmen called, but Quinn barely heard her.

Because Solen was looking at her like Quinn was the only person in a crowd of hundreds, and the terrifying part was how natural it felt to look back the same way.

They finished the red carpet circuit in a haze of practiced smiles and coordinated movements, but Quinn's attention kept drifting to the way Solen's hand felt in hers, the way their rhythm had evolved beyond anything they'd rehearsed.

In the theater lobby, Quinn caught fragments of conversation from industry executives. "Natural chemistry." "Couldn't have cast it better." "Look at those engagement metrics already."

Her phone buzzed with notifications—their photos trending on three different platforms, fan accounts analyzing their body language, entertainment blogs speculating about wedding timelines.

Quinn found a relatively quiet corner near the theater bar and pulled out her leather notebook, the familiar weight grounding her racing thoughts.

"Note," she wrote carefully: "When Solen looks at me like that, I forget we're performing. This should terrify me, but instead it feels like the most honest moment I've had in years. Need to analyze why authenticity feels more frightening than any amount of pretense."

She paused, pen hovering over the page, then added: "Also note: six weeks ago, I thought love was just excellent character development. Beginning to suspect I may have fundamentally misunderstood the assignment."