Page 6

Kat

Katrina Kelly was going through a rebranding.

Kat hated that word. Rebranding sounded like something that should happen to a health food company that had accidentally given a lot of people zinc poisoning, or a politician who’d been caught sexually harassing his interns.

It had a distinct note of wrongdoing to it—as if Kat must have done something particularly shameful to land herself in this position, when in reality all she had done was grow up.

She didn’t look sixteen anymore. That was the crime she’d committed against the entertainment industry. And now she was serving out her sentence in the most remote conference room at the Creative Talent Agency’s New York office.

“Just through here.” The slick-haired assistant who had walked her down several hallways, each of which Kat swore had gotten incrementally darker, hooked a thumb into one of his red suspenders as he gestured her around yet another corner.

Katrina was fairly certain the CTA office hadn’t been this large the last time she was here.

But then again, the last time she’d visited she’d been finishing off the press tour for Mission Im-Paw-ssible (the sequel to Spy Pigs —a box office hit, but widely dismissed as lacking the charm of the original), and they’d put her in one of the big conference rooms on the main floor.

Suspenders led Katrina through a few more confusing turns. If he abandoned her here, she would never find her way out again. She wasn’t sure this even still was the CTA office. Possibly they had rented out another building for the sole purpose of snubbing her.

“Here we go.” Suspenders gestured at a dark room. Katrina peered inside. There were no windows. Through the gloom, she could just barely make out a small round table, only big enough for three chairs. She sighed.

The assistant shot her a glance that might have been intended as sympathetic but mostly came off as smug. He snapped on the lights.

“Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Juice?”

“Water would be great,” Katrina said, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity.

“Of course.”

He disappeared back through the labyrinth of hallways, and Kat looked around the room.

There was a tray of snacks against one wall, but otherwise it was empty.

She’d forgotten to eat breakfast, she realized.

She should probably open one of the granola bars, but the thought of trying to force anything into her stomach made her nauseous.

It was just nerves, she told herself. Once she had a plan to fix her career, she’d get back on a regular eating schedule. It wasn’t a big deal.

She took out her phone to occupy herself while she waited.

Automatically, she flipped open Instagram to check how her post of the tote bag from the bookstore had done.

It had been twenty-four hours, and she had a hundred thousand likes.

Shit. She should have posed with the bag instead—pictures with her face in them always did better.

Until three years ago, Kat hadn’t cared about her social media.

She’d been so famous that she didn’t need to worry about keeping her fans invested and engaged—her regular appearance in movie theaters did that for her.

She’d always had Instagram, but an assistant had run it for her, keeping her page stocked with glamour shots and behind-the-scenes photos.

Now social media was the one tangible thing she could offer to casting directors—the ability to get their movie in front of eight million people on a regular basis.

She couldn’t afford an assistant anymore, but she hired a photographer once a month to take shots of her in different locations, so she had glamorous photos to post to her grid two or three times a week.

She did a story every day, letting fans see her skin care routine, her daily workout, what she ate for breakfast. Giving fans a glimpse of the “real” her—but not so real that it ruined the magic.

She showed them a carefully curated, upbeat, real-talking-without-saying-anything-depressing version of her authentic self, as mandated by the social media expert she’d hired to audit her online presence last year.

She was supposed to be open about the difficulties of fame without seeming to take it for granted.

To be warm and friendly without seeming desperate.

To be sad, sometimes, without seeming weak.

To be happy without gloating. To go on fancy vacations and eat in trendy restaurants without flaunting.

To perfectly strike the balance between being relatable and being inspirational.

A lot of the comments on her latest post were focused on the books she’d purchased— The Color Purple, To the Lighthouse, and Bad Feminist. Some of them argued that these books were proof that Katrina Kelly was queer, while others argued that these books were proof that Katrina Kelly just liked to read.

Which was, of course, the whole point of buying those exact books. To get people talking.

Kat stopped herself before she scrolled too far—she didn’t need that hit to her self-esteem today.

Instead, she opened her DMs. As usual, she had more messages than she could possibly respond to.

She’d stopped looking at requests from people she didn’t follow back, as she’d been scarred by disturbing messages one too many times.

Of her primary messages, half were actors with even worse careers than her, trying to build a connection by responding to her stories with personal anecdotes, which she mostly ignored and occasionally hearted.

But she did try to keep up with messages from higher-up industry people, bigger brands, and the people she spent time with in L.A.

, ostensibly her friends, so she scrolled through the list, her eye snagging on one particular message.

It was from The Next Chapter. When Kat had tagged them in the post, she’d opened a message thread between them, and the bookstore had responded.

Hey, this is Jude. I really enjoyed meeting you in the store the other day. I hope you’re liking the Eileen Styles book. If you’re interested, I would love to take you for a drink to talk about it sometime.

Kat stared at the message. Jude wanted to see her again. Kat hadn’t been making up their flirtation at the store.

Or had she? Was Jude only interested now because she knew Kat was famous?

Kat hated not knowing whether someone was interested in her or her fame.

Ninety percent of the time, the answer was easy: most people were interested in Katrina Kelly the movie star, not Kat the person.

But she and Jude had had such instant, easy chemistry…

Was it delusional to think that Jude might actually just want to get to know Kat for Kat?

Thankfully, the door opened at that moment and Kat’s manager came in before she had time to descend into a spiral.

Jocelyn Davies was white, with sleek bobbed hair and an aura of annoyed efficiency that made her seem taller than she actually was—although the four-inch heels helped, too.

She spoke very fast and always seemed to be in a rush, but she was the person who’d guided Kat’s career to the heights it had (so briefly) reached.

She had even temporarily moved to New York to help Kat with the next phase of her career.

“ There you are,” Jocelyn said, hurrying over to kiss Kat on both cheeks.

“It took me forever to find you. I’ve never even been to this corner of the office.

” She frowned, as if Kat had specifically requested to be placed in the most hidden conference room, but then her frown abruptly turned into a beam. “Good news! I’ve found our play.”

Kat sat up straighter. This was exactly what she needed to drive Jude out of her head—a plan. “What is it?”

Jocelyn sat down and leaned eagerly across the table. “Richard Gottlieb. Do you know Richard Gottlieb?” She snapped her fingers three times, urging Kat to be quick.

“I don’t think so.”

“Of course you don’t! He’s not a Hollywood guy. He’s a theater guy. One of those literary, pretentious types. Very gay. Wears a lot of scarves. He’s won all sorts of awards—nothing you’d have heard of, minor theater awards, you know. And guess what?”

Kat grinned. “He has a show?”

“He has a show.” Jocelyn grinned back. “It’s called Philosophies of Desire. Auditions in six weeks. Off-Broadway for now, but everyone’s saying this one will go all the way. I see Tonys in our future, my dear.”

“It’s not a musical, is it?” Kat asked, her stomach sinking.

She’d recorded a few singles during her P.R.O.M.

days, at the network’s request, but they’d had to use so much auto-tune that she had come out sounding vaguely demonic.

Apparently, they’d been resurfacing in a lot of horror TikToks lately.

Thankfully, Richard Gottlieb wasn’t into musicals, Jocelyn explained.

He was an up-and-coming writer/director.

His new play was about a morally gray young woman who seduces a respectable middle-aged male professor.

It was literary and serious and a little bit scandalous—the perfect role for a child star looking to launch a new career with a sophisticated adult image. It would be Kat’s Equus.

Kat’s breathing came a little easier as Jocelyn spoke. Her career might be in shambles, but Jocelyn Davies had found a way to fix it. Ideally, she’d be acting in Oscar-bait blockbusters within two years.