Page 153 of Reckless Hearts

I struggle to sit up, my head pounding. “Relax, I was just sleeping on the flight.”

“Bullshit!” Jake’s voice rises, his composure cracking. “You were barely breathing. If this got out?—”

“But it obviously didn’t,” I say wearily. “So what’s the problem?”

Jake runs a hand through his disheveled hair. “The problem is you’re playing Russian roulette with your career. With your life! One slip-up, one paparazzi photo, and it’s game over.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “Game over? Please. You’d spin it into some sob story comeback narrative before I even hit rehab.”

“This isn’t a joke, Marcus,” Jake hisses, leaning in close. “You’re not just risking your reputation. You’re risking everything we’ve built.”

I slump back down in the bed.

“You think you’re going to get those Oscar-worthy roles you want if you’ve got a reputation as a washed-up junkie who can’t be trusted to show up on set without falling apart?” he continues.

“Seb broke up with me.” I say the words flatly, the pain behind them threatening to choke me. It’s like saying it aloud makes it real, final.

“That’s probably for the best,” Jake says.

I have to swallow the lump in my throat before I can answer.

“For him,” I say. “It’s the best for him.”

“Christ, Marcus,” Jake mutters, running a hand over his face. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small orange bottle. “I’ve got some new stuff from Dr. Reeves. It’s supposed to help with anxiety without the…side effects. Might make things easier to handle. Take two, go have a shower. I’ll make you some breakfast.”

When Jake leaves the room, I stare at the bottle of pills.

How fucking ironic that Jake’s solution for me having a potential overdose is more pills.

But I don’t think I can handle the unfiltered version of my brain right now.

I swallow the pills and go jump into the shower.

When I walk into Jake’s kitchen, my hair damp, my face cleanly shaven, Jake has made me scrambled eggs.

He shoves the plate in front of me. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.”

I cautiously eat a forkful. My stomach recoils slightly, but I manage to keep it down.

“I got a call from Annie Harlow,” Jake says.

I raise my eyebrows. Annie Harlow is an up-and-coming indie film producer known for tackling controversial subjects with a raw, uncompromising style. She’s not afraid to push boundaries or ruffle feathers.

“She wants you to audition for her upcoming film,The Invisible Thread. It’s got Oscar bait written all over it.”

I run my hand through my damp hair. “I’ll take a look at it,” I say.

Jake fixes me with a calculating stare. “There’s a famous saying about heartbreak you should remember.”

“What’s that?”

“If your heart is broken, make art with the pieces.”

Over the next few days,I physically ache for Seb. I find myself staring at his contact in my phone, my thumb hovering over the call button, before I remember I can’t.

I desperately want to talk to him. I want to check he’s okay. The agony on his face during our last conversation haunts me.