Page 15 of Flipping the Script

THE LINES BLUR

S olen sat cross-legged on Quinn's pristine hardwood floor, laptop balanced on her knees, watching their mentions multiply faster than she could read them.

Quinn paced behind her like a caged academic, clutching her phone with white knuckles, both of them still wearing the borrowed pajamas from their impromptu sleepover that had somehow become the most comfortable night either had experienced in months.

"Listen to this one," Quinn's voice carried a note of bewilderment as she read aloud.

"'Quinn and Solen are literally relationship goals.

You can see how much they adore each other just in the way they look at each other.

Most authentic couple in Hollywood right now.

'" She paused her pacing. "Authentic. They're calling us authentic. "

Solen's fingers stilled on the keyboard. The irony tasted bitter on her tongue. "Here's another gem: 'The way Solen touches Quinn's hand during interviews—that's not acting, that's real love.' Forty-three thousand likes and counting."

"'Their chemistry is so natural it makes other celebrity couples look rehearsed,'" Quinn continued, her voice growing more strained with each compliment. "'You can tell Quinn's never been happier. Look at how she glows when Solen talks about her writing.'"

The praise felt like a gift wrapped in barbed wire.

Solen scrolled through comment after comment celebrating their "obvious genuine connection" and "the way they've healed each other" while her stomach twisted tighter with each enthusiastic observation.

These strangers were seeing something real in moments that were supposed to be performance, and she wasn't sure anymore which terrified her more—that they might be right, or that they might find out the truth.

Her finger froze over a new Instagram story notification. The username made her blood run cold: @TashaMoonOfficial.

The image loaded slowly, revealing Solen's own vintage compass necklace—or one exactly like it—arranged artfully against white silk. The caption made her mouth go dry: "Some people always find their way back to the truth #WatchThisSpace #KnowingWhatIKnow."

Posted twenty minutes ago.

Solen's hand moved unconsciously to her throat, fingers finding the familiar weight of her actual compass necklace still resting against her collarbone. The relief lasted exactly two seconds before the implications crashed over her.

"What's wrong?" Quinn's voice came from directly beside her, and Solen realized she'd gone completely still. Quinn knelt on the floor, her green eyes sharp with concern. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Worse." Solen turned the laptop screen toward Quinn. "I've seen Tasha."

Quinn's expression shifted from concern to calculation as she read the caption twice. "Cryptic threats via social media. How very... contemporary villain of her." She studied Solen's face. "This means something specific, doesn't it?"

Solen touched her compass necklace again, a nervous habit Tasha had always found endearing until she'd started using it against her.

"She does this. Builds anticipation with vague posts, gets people speculating, then drops just enough truth to destroy everything without technically lying about anything.

" Her voice caught. "She's really good at it. "

Quinn sank fully onto the floor beside her, the careful distance they'd been maintaining all morning disappearing. "What does she know that would be worth teasing?"

"That we're fake." The words came out smaller than Solen intended.

"She knows how publicity relationships work because she's been trying to manufacture one for herself for years.

And she knows me well enough to spot when I'm performing versus when I'm..." She gestured vaguely between them. "Whatever this is."

Quinn's phone buzzed against the hardwood with an incoming call. She glanced at the screen and winced. "Iris. This can't be good news." She swiped to answer, putting it on speaker. "Please tell me you're calling to congratulate us on our successful media debut."

"I was, until twenty minutes ago." Iris's voice carried the crisp efficiency of crisis management mode.

"We have three entertainment outlets requesting statements about Tasha Caldwell's implied revelations, and someone managed to photograph you two through your kitchen window this morning.

The photos are already circulating with captions about 'intimate domestic moments' and 'authentic morning-after glow. '"

Solen's stomach dropped. "Photos of what, exactly?"

"You two at the counter, both in pajamas, looking very... couple-ish. Quinn's hand on your back, you feeding her pieces of fruit. It's actually quite sweet, but the timing with Tasha's posts is?—"

"Strategically terrible," Quinn finished. She rubbed her temples. "How bad is the speculation?"

"Currently manageable, but if Tasha follows through on whatever she's threatening to reveal, these photos will be used as either evidence of authenticity or proof of an elaborate performance, depending on her narrative.

" Iris's sigh was audible through the speaker.

"I need to know what we're dealing with. What does she actually know?"

Solen met Quinn's eyes, seeing her own anxiety reflected in the sharp green depths.

"Everything. She knows our timeline was too convenient, she knows I've never brought anyone to a premiere before, and she knows exactly how to read my body language.

" She swallowed hard. "Plus she has photos from when we were together.

Private ones. She's already proven she's willing to use them. "

The silence stretched long enough for Solen's heart to beat several uncomfortable rhythms.

"Right." Iris's tone shifted into pure business mode. "Quinn, can you host there for the day? The photographers outside your building are multiplying, and we need to control the narrative before Tasha sets it for us."

Quinn stood abruptly, beginning to pace her living room in tight circles.

"This is exactly what I was afraid would happen.

We get one successful event and immediately everything spirals beyond our control.

" She dragged her hands through her hair, destroying what was left of her carefully maintained composure.

"She's going to turn this into a circus. "

Solen watched Quinn's pacing accelerate and recognized the signs of an impending anxiety spiral—the same pattern she'd seen when Quinn talked about her previous script failures or her need for everything to go according to plan.

Without thinking, she stood and caught Quinn's hand mid-pace, guiding her toward the couch.

"Hey." Solen's voice was gentler than she'd intended. "Look at me. What's the worst thing that happens here?"

Quinn's laugh held no humor. "The worst thing?

Tasha exposes us, our careers implode, the studio sues us for fraud, and I never work in Hollywood again.

" She perched on the edge of the couch cushion like she might bolt at any moment.

"Oh, and everyone who's praising our 'authentic connection' realizes they've been completely manipulated. "

"Okay, but what if we don't let her control the story?" Solen settled beside her, close enough that their knees touched. "What if we focus on what we can actually manage instead of spiraling about hypothetical disasters?"

Quinn's expression shifted, the analytical part of her mind clearly engaging with the problem-solving approach. "What do you mean?"

"I mean Tasha's power comes from secrets and shame.

But what if we don't give her anything to weaponize?

" Solen reached for Quinn's hand, surprised when Quinn's fingers immediately intertwined with hers.

"We know our arrangement started as fake.

We also know that something real is developing between us, even if we're both terrified to name it.

What if we just... focus on that truth instead of managing her lies? "

Quinn stared at their joined hands for a long moment.

The idea felt reckless, almost suicidal.

Her mind immediately flashed through the potential headlines: 'Fake Couple Exposed: Careers Implode.

' The contracts they'd signed with the studio, the non-disclosure agreements, the possibility of being blacklisted from every major project.

This wasn't just about bruised egos; it was about professional annihilation.

"You're suggesting we ignore a direct threat to our careers in favor of feelings we can't even define yet. "

"I'm suggesting we stop letting fear make our decisions.

" Solen squeezed Quinn's fingers. "Besides, some of those comments aren't wrong.

We do have chemistry. We do make each other laugh.

And I've never felt more like myself with anyone than I do when I'm with you, even when we're supposedly performing. "

The admission hung between them, more honest than either had planned to be. Quinn's thumb traced across Solen's knuckles, a gesture so unconsciously intimate that Solen's breath caught.

"Iris," Quinn said without looking away from Solen, "can you buy us today to figure out our approach? Decline interview requests, issue a simple 'enjoying their privacy' statement about the photos?"

"Absolutely. But I'll need a strategy by tomorrow morning." Iris's voice carried a note of something that might have been approval. "Try to remember that the best publicity relationships are the ones that become real ones. Much easier to maintain."

After they hung up, Quinn's apartment settled into unusual quiet. Neither of them moved from the couch, their hands still linked, both avoiding the conversation that felt too enormous for Quinn's carefully ordered living room.

"I should call out of my photo shoot," Solen said eventually.

"And I should cancel my writing session at Grind." Quinn's voice was thoughtful. "Probably smart to avoid public spaces until we know what Tasha's planning."

They spent the afternoon in Quinn's kitchen, moving around each other with surprising ease as they prepared lunch.

Solen found herself cataloging small details: how Quinn hummed unconsciously while chopping vegetables, the way she automatically handed Solen things before Solen asked for them, how her usual rigid posture relaxed into something more natural when she wasn't thinking about being observed.

"Can I ask you something?" Solen said as they arranged sandwiches on Quinn's minimalist plates.

"Shoot."

"What made you agree to this whole arrangement? Really, I mean. Not the career salvation part—the fake relationship specifically." Solen leaned against the counter. "You're not exactly the type who enjoys performance for its own sake."

Quinn was quiet for so long that Solen wondered if she'd overstepped. When Quinn finally answered, her voice was carefully controlled. "Honestly? I think part of me was curious what it would feel like to be the person someone chose to protect."

The words hit Solen unexpectedly hard. "What do you mean?"

"My whole life has been about making myself useful enough that people won't leave.

Writing scripts so good they can't be ignored, being so prepared that nothing can go wrong, maintaining such tight control that I never become someone's problem to solve.

" Quinn's smile was self-deprecating. "But you needed a girlfriend who could help rehabilitate your image, and for thirty days, I got to be chosen for who I could pretend to be instead of what I could produce. "

Solen felt something crack open in her chest. "Quinn..."

"It's pathetic, I know."

"No." Solen stepped closer. "It's not pathetic. It's heartbreaking." She reached up to touch Quinn's cheek. "Because you're not just useful, Quinn. You're brilliant and funny and kind, and anyone who doesn't see that without needing proof is an idiot."

Quinn's eyes went suspiciously bright. "Even when I'm controlling and rigid and completely neurotic about scripts?"

"Especially then." Solen's thumb traced along Quinn's cheekbone. "Besides, I like your neurotic tendencies. They balance out my chaos."

They were standing too close now, the pretense of lunch preparation forgotten. Quinn's hands had somehow found their way to Solen's waist, and Solen could count the small gold flecks in Quinn's green eyes.

"This is real," Quinn said quietly, and it wasn't a question.

"Yeah." Solen's voice came out rougher than intended. "It is."

Neither of them moved to close the distance between them, but neither pulled away. They stood suspended in Quinn's bright kitchen, surrounded by the ordinary domestic scene of shared lunch preparation, while the extraordinary reality of genuine feelings settled around them like afternoon light.

"So what do we do about Tasha?" Solen asked eventually.

Quinn's expression shifted back toward determination, but her hands remained on Solen's waist. "We give the people what they actually want to see."

"Which is?"

"Us. Actually us." Quinn's smile turned almost mischievous. "But maybe we keep the actually us part just for ourselves for now."