I ended up only sleeping for a few hours; one, because I couldn't stop reading Zane's piece. And two, because once I'd read it, it settled in my heart and made me uneasy.

He lied. He lied about every interaction we'd had. And threw in some pretty recipes for his favorite dishes. And detailed his family's immigration from Europe.

He'd concocted a whole sad sob-story for the press to gobble up and that would destroy me. Not that I didn't believe all the parts about his past; but I knew he'd tossed in bits to further put me into the villain zone.

I was too enraged to even attempt to sleep later than six o'clock, so I threw myself in the shower—a cold one, to wake me up.

As I was coming out, the door to my suite beeped and opened.

"Béa," said Elliot, squeezing into the room, whistling. "Damn, they booked you a palace this time!"

"Yeah, well," I said, readjusting my towel around myself. For the tiniest of seconds, I thought the door would open and reveal Zane, standing there gloating about his potential success and how he'd used me for it. And, fuck me, I would have dropped my towel and showed him the body he was missing out on by being the worst of jerks.

But it was Elliot. Of course it was Elliot, and they'd been given a key-card for my room, so they could put a face on my tired features for the day. Elliot worked for me, not the studio, so wherever I went for big events, they came along.

"They'd better book me a palace when they have so much to make up for." I returned to the bathroom and slipped into my comfortable undies and bra, and sauntered out into the main space where Elliot was setting up. I didn't care about them seeing me in my underwear. "Booking me on a panel with Him? Seriously?"

Elliot hummed as they spread out their brushes and palettes atop the desk in the corner of the spacious room. I slid on a plush robe and took a seat, and Elliot rubbed their hands over my skin, a silky moisturizer coating me.

"Pretty fucked up, for sure." Their massaging motion put me at ease, if only temporarily. "Did Wendy say whose idea it was?"

I scoffed. "I doubt it was hers. She likes to push boundaries, but not like that. Not like," I grimaced, "Grace. Ugh. I can't have that many demeaning women in my entourage, thank you."

Elliot flinched, but kept moving around, prepping my skin for the layers of makeup I'd need to hide my fatigue. "Is that why you look like shit? Did you stay up all night writing angry poems that you'll burn while thinking of Grace and your publishers?"

"Shut up." I only smirked because a younger version of me would have done exactly that. "I stayed up all night reading Zane's book." Elliot gasped. "I know, I know. But I needed to be prepared for all the bullshit he put in it about me."

Elliot winced, stopping halfway through selecting a shade of eyeshadow. "What are you wearing?" I pointed towards my outfit hanging behind the bathroom door—a tight, power-purple pantsuit. "Hm," they snatched one of the eyeshadow palettes, "you read the whole thing?"

Something about their tone troubled me. "I don't half-ass things, Elliot. But have you read it? Because you don't seem all that surprised."

They were facing away from me, but I caught them flinching again in the mirror propped up on the desk. "I haven't read it, but I know...stuff."

"Elliot." I grabbed their airy, cotton sleeve and spun them to me. "What the fuck has been going on with you? You know way more than usual. Everything that's happened in the past few months..."

Elliot was private about their life, most days, but not with me. When I asked, they told me.

But in the few times we'd been able to meet up, they were...off. Not one hundred percent their sassy self. Always put together—actually more than usual, a mix of dapper suits and flowy dresses that showed off their svelte and well-kept figure. But there was something vacant in their usually shiny eyes.

"Ugh, fine." They dropped the eyeshadow brush they'd been dipping into a vivid purple shade. "It'll come out eventually, and you'll push until I spill, so..." They sighed, leaning against the desk. "I'm sleeping with Grace."

"You're what?" I jumped up from the seat, almost knocking over all their perfectly placed makeup tools; I didn't care. My blood boiled. Fuck makeup. "You're fucking kidding me."

They shook their head, their black hair reflecting blue in the gentle sunrise coming from outside. "I'm not. And your reaction is why I didn't tell you."

"She's the enemy," I said, placing a hand on my heart, waiting for it to stop thudding in my rib-cage. My words were shockingly calm considering how inside, I was a bomb about to blow. "She's..."

"She's a woman who is under a lot more pressure than you think. And she's definitely not the asshole you keep making her out to be. But," Elliot rolled their eyes, "yes, technically, she's the enemy, which makes our sex even hotter. Sorry." They picked up the makeup brush again. "Close your eyes."

I obeyed, but my nose scrunched. "This conversation isn't over." I opened my eyes suddenly, and Elliot almost poked me in the eye with the brush. "So that's how you always know everything before I do!"

"Close your goddamn eyes, Béatrice! Jeez." I again did as they asked, but crossed my arms and huffed like a spoiled child. "And yes, that's how I've known everything going on lately."

"I can't believe you." Hisses came from my closed mouth; not words. "Was this going on before or after the Zane episode?"

Elliot's brush stopped swiping over my eyelid, but I knew better than to open my eyes to gauge their expression. "During. The same night you slept with Zane, Grace and I...well, the food was kind of an aphrodisiac for us. Thanks, Zane." Their coffee-breath puffed over my face. "Think of it this way: if you need intel on anything at the studio, I can deliver it to you."

"Will you, though?" I snagged their arm, steadying them before they resumed the makeup. "I don't feel like I can trust you. It's like you prioritized your sex life with Grace over me, your best friend. Lately...you're not you, and I don't like it."

I couldn't see them, but I knew they shrugged. "I wasn't me because I was sneaking around to hide this from you. But now that you know...I'm back."

I held in a sneeze as some powder drifted atop my nose. "Could you maybe sleep with Wendy, too? So you can figure out what the fuck went through her mind, and my publisher's, to get me here today?"

I half-expected Elliot to take offense, but they laughed. "Wendy is hot, but it doesn't sound like she's the one responsible for this. Any hot pansexuals at your publishing house? I could work my way up."

I cracked a smile, despite my stress. This was the real Elliot; the playful, caring one. I'd never approve of them sleeping with Grace, but they were an adult and could make their own decisions. And I'd be around for them when Grace inevitably broke their heart.

"No, but for real," Elliot lifted my chin, and I knew that was my cue to open my eyes, "this can't detract you, Béa. Don't let anyone know how badly Zane affects you. It's been months, and you can't show that." They swept a pad under my eyes to rid my skin of excess eyeshadow. "Sit up on that panel, smile, answer questions, promote your shit. Stand your ground."

My nails dug into my palms. "How can I stand my ground when a man, in an industry dominated by men, crushes me and everything I've ever done, without proof?"

"That bad, huh?" Elliot cups my chin. "Well, crush him right back."

***

I kept Elliot's words in mind all morning. I wished I could stuff Elliot in my pocket and bring them with me to the event. But they weren't part of that package, and would be waiting at the hotel for me when it was all over.

To keep them entertained in the meantime, I sent them the link to Zane's book, to prove I wasn't exaggerating on how he'd tried to destroy me.

The New York City Comic Con was a blur of cos-players, children screaming at their favorite characters, lines and lines of people desperate to get in. High ceilings, large corridors, lofty panel rooms loaded with eager fans. It was everything I'd have expected, and then some.

But it was the last place I wanted to be.

My panel with the chefs was scheduled for later in the afternoon. I'd also been booked for a smaller, more open-style panel in the rear of the huge main room—a solo kitchen demonstration of one of my famous dishes, which was a revision of a ratatouille, using only elements I liked. It was one of my most controversial meals, because the deep foodies despised it for all the changes I made, but it happened to also be my most beloved by fellow picky eaters.

As I arrived on the narrow kitchen platform, my name announced by the moderator, the audience gathered around cheered. This was a free event for all ticket-holders, so people could come and go as they pleased. My recipe took time, so between chopping and seasoning and stuffing things into the oven, I had a moment or two to chat with fans, sign autographs, and give anecdotes.

I was reassured to see I, as a chef, still had a strong fan-base, even among the nerd and bookish crowd at this event.

When my Revised-a-touille—yes, my creativity in my earlier years was something else—came out of the oven, the scent of my chosen vegetables filled the air, and I smiled. The crowd applauded, and I asked the moderator if anyone would get to try any of this food.

"If you'd like," he said, "they can line up and we'll distribute until there's no more left?"

I nodded. "If we cut the portions, make them more of a sample size, this could be tasted by quite a few of those attendees."

The moderator announced the news to everyone, and they rushed up, pushing and shoving to get a spot near the platform.

I chuckled as I watched them, flattered that they were all so intrigued by my dish.

As they scattered from the rounded area where they'd been watching me, one lone figure remained, standing against a wall, his arms crossed, his dark gaze glued on me.

Fuck.

Zane.

He was here, in New York, for the panel. I knew that, but to see him in person was a solidification of that fact. To see him here, at my event, was destabilizing.

I hadn't seen him in months. All my careful calculations ensured I steered clear of his restaurant and the neighborhood he lived in.

And there he was, dressed in a navy blue suit, a baby blue shirt underneath, the first few buttons undone to expose his tanned skin. His loafers were brown, polished, looking new. As he shifted his stance, I noticed a giant silver watch on his left wrist.

For a self-published author and novice restaurateur, he seemed to be doing quite well.

I was thankful I hadn't spotted him while I was cooking, because I'd have messed up. Ratatouille was his signature dish, or at least it was the one that gave us history. To be performing a different version of that dish, with my favorite items in it, might have offended him. It might have felt like a direct affront to him.

And as much as I loved that idea, I hadn't prepared for that today. I'd prepared to see him at the panel, to sit as far away from him as I could, and pretend like I didn't know him.

But everyone knew that wasn't true.

As the crowd snagged tiny plates of my food and rushed off to scarf down the morsels of vegetables and crispy crust, he watched. The way he looked at me suggested familiarity; it betrayed our carnal knowledge in a heartbeat. His eyes roved from my neck, to my breasts—the shirt under my suit was low-cut and revealing—to my center. He then zipped back up to my eyes, and I could have sworn the echo of a smile slipped over his lips.

Fucker. I'd vowed to myself that I'd keep my cool, but the longer he stood there, observing my fans getting rowdy over my food, the more he stared at me, the more my body tensed. The more I snarled without meaning to, the more I sensed violence boiling up inside me.

Stay where you are, stay where you are—

My legs moved before I could stop them.

The moderator tried to block me, reminding me I was supposed to answer questions.

I shooed him off. "They're too busy eating," I said, gesturing to a group of kids who'd stuffed their sample into their mouths so quickly, I knew they wouldn't be savoring all the effort I'd put into the dish. "I'll be back."

With everyone so distracted, I hoped no one would notice me storming right up to Zane.

He perked up at my approach, but sank against the wall as I dug my finger into his chest. "Hey—"

"—I said I didn't want to see or hear from you again," I hissed through my teeth, checking left and right for anyone watching us.

"Well, jeez." He regained his composure as he slithered backwards and adjusted his jacket—which didn't need adjusting. "You didn't say anything about writing a book."

"A book about me." I glowered at him, praying he'd feel the force of my wrath, because if I touched him again, I'd crumble. His chest was so firm, and steam radiated around him, like he was the forbidden fruit in a grove I wasn't supposed to find. Fuck. "A book dissing me and everything I stand for, and lying about all our encounters." I shuddered. "Who the fuck are you to do that? To lie like that?"

He arched an eyebrow, and that stupid smirk on his lips made me want to smack him. Kiss him. Both at the same time. "Was it lying, though?"

"One hundred percent," I spat, hardly letting him finish his sentence.

"How would you know? Wait," his smug look faded, "did you read it?"

My glower worsened. "You think I wouldn't back up my facts? Of course I read it. When I saw all the reviews pouring in and hinting at me being a part of it all, I had to double check."

"Wow." He rubbed the back of his neck, a gentle flush flaring up his cheeks. "I didn't...I wouldn't have thought that you..."

Zane Rose was flustered. Zane Rose was embarrassed that I'd read his book. He'd uttered all sorts of nonsense shit about me, and thought I wouldn't want to read all about it to better arm myself against him?

He was a fool. A hot, mouthwateringly tasty, expensively-dressed fool. And if I stayed in his presence one more second, I'd succumb. Because he was adorable when he broke down, when he showed vulnerability, like now. When he was impressed and terrified all at once. When he was bashful, like a prepubescent teen who'd found out his crush liked him back.

But I wasn't his crush, I wasn't a teenager, and I didn't like him.

I loathed him.

And I'd use this—his shame—against him.

I didn't smile, but the twitch of the corners of my lips hopefully showed enough raw emotion for him. "You shouldn't think anything about me at all, Zane." I took a step back, bracing to return to my crowd of fans and to answer their questions. "See you on the panel, friend."

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