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Prologue

EMMA

FEBRUARY 14TH

When Spencer disappears for the third time tonight, I’m standing beside a six-foot arrangement of white roses, clutching a champagne glass and pretending I don’t care.

The flowers are having a better night than I am.

A photographer calls Spencer’s name from across the ballroom, and his head snaps up. “Be right back, baby.”

He brushes a kiss against my temple and heads off before I can answer.

I watch him weave through the crowd. Or try to. An actress in a silver gown catches him first. Then a producer and a retired football player. A reporter steps in after that.

The cameras start flashing before he even reaches the photographer.

I take a sip of champagne.

A few months ago, this would’ve ruined my night. I’d have stood here wondering what I’d done wrong, replaying every conversation we’d had that week and convincing myself the distance between us was temporary.

Now I just feel exhausted.

Exhausted from smiling for photographs that tell their own version of our relationship. More exhausted by being introduced as Spencer Stone’s girlfriend, as though “Emma” is a detail nobody needs.

Around me, the ballroom shines beneath crystal chandeliers. Servers move through the crowd with trays of champagne balanced on one hand. Near the stage, a string quartet plays beneath the steady hum of celebrities, executives, and socialites drifting between conversations.

Every surface gleams. Every person looks important. And I’m standing in the middle of it feeling completely invisible.

“Emma?”

A woman whose name escapes me appears at my side.

Before I can stop her, she’s telling me all about an interview Spencer gave last month. “He was incredible,” she says. “That answer about the studio merger? So intelligent.”

“Mmhmm.”

“And the way he handled that journalist⁠—“

“Yeah, he’s good at that.”

She keeps talking about Spencer’s interview, and I contribute what I hope are appropriately timed nods, adding the occasional smile whenever she pauses long enough to expect one.

My attention drifts anyway.

Across the ballroom, Spencer throws his head back at something someone says, poses for another photograph, then gets swept into yet another conversation before the camera flashes have even faded. Every time it looks like he might break free, someone else stops him.

The distance between us keeps growing, even though we’re standing in the same room.

When the woman finally pauses to draw breath, I take the opening. “It was lovely seeing you. But I have to…”

I excuse myself and head for the exit.

The ballroom doors swing shut behind me, muffling the music and conversation. The knot that’s been sitting between my shoulders all evening eases as I step into the hallway beyond.

The backstage corridors stretch ahead, mostly empty now. My heels click against polished floors as I follow a maze of dressing rooms and private suites, passing staff members too busy to pay attention to me.

I tell myself I just need a few minutes. A chance to pull myself together before I go back out there and smile for another camera.