by Meg Collett
Wren hadn’t heard anyone enter the bathroom, but an outfit was indeed hanging on a hook for her. She changed into the simple jeans and a white t-shirt. She thought the outfit was understated until she saw how it accentuated her curves and tapered waist. Pleasantly surprised, Wren joined Hutton out in the hallway. The black hall snaking around the bedrooms was bustling with activity. Wren had to keep to the wall to avoid the crew members darting about.
“First day madness,” Hutton commented.
“What’s the schedule for today?”
“Last night’s events put a damper on things. Maddox is pushing back the planned scenes. You’ll be filming later this morning with Beau and Roman, but nothing too strict. Maddox wants you to improvise.”
“Great.” It might have sounded sarcastic to passing crew members, but Wren knew Hutton had caught the scratch of fear in her voice. Not that it was Hutton’s style to offer comfort. She simply continued down the center of the hall, letting everyone else get out of her way. Eventually, she stopped at a door.
“This is my office. You have access to it too.” She pressed her thumb to the reader. It unlocked with a chime.
“Got it.” Wren followed Hutton into a small office barely big enough for a narrow desk, computer, and chair. Wren couldn’t picture her handler working in such a confined space. Hutton’s ego would at least need a bigger door to fit through.
Hutton took one step and was at her desk. Wren asked, “This is where you work?”
Hutton rifled through a desk drawer. “My, aren’t you getting all high and mighty. Yes, this is where I work. Sorry you have to deign to be seen in it.”
“I just mean it seems like you should have a bigger space. There’s so much room out there.”
Hutton wrinkled her nose but returned to the drawer’s contents. Without saying anything, she pulled out a sealed packet. It contained two pills, one square and one round. She handed them to Wren.
Wren tore open the packet and placed the pills on her tongue. They dissolved in her mouth with a minty burst and the sweet taste of cinnamon from the alt pill.
“Has your body been feeling fine?” Hutton asked. “No aches?”
Wren swallowed the last of the pills. “Nothing. I feel great.”
“Let me know if that changes. We might need to up your alt maintenance dose.”
“I will.” Wren turned to leave the office.
“I’m sorry about earlier. I know you meant nothing against my office.”
Wren glanced back, too shocked to form words for a second. “It’s fine.”
“You were being nice, and I snapped at you. I’m just not used to it, okay? I’m sorry.”
Hutton was struggling so much with the apology that Wren almost smiled, but she knew better. She rarely got moments like this with Hutton, and she wasn’t about to ruin it with a smile. For all of Hutton’s sharp edges, Wren liked her. Hutton had to be a certain kind of ruthless to survive here, same as Sloane.
“No problem, Hutton.”
“Fantastic. Now go into the hallway. I can’t get around this desk if you’re standing there blocking the door.”
: : :
Makeup’s headquarters sprawled across an entire stretch of black hallway, central to the casts’ bedrooms. Adjustable swivel chairs, which reminded Wren of the red leather one in Sloane’s penthouse far too much for comfort, sat before chrome vanities and large mirrors with round light bulbs. Women and men in black aprons wielded tiny, fluffy brushes like scalpels as they called back and forth to each other above the blaring music, words flying faster than Wren could pick out.
The atmosphere was frenetic with barely contained chaos, and Wren loved it. She slipped down the black hallway, smoothie in hand, and kept her eyes latched on Hutton’s back, lest she lose her handler in the madness. Hutton stopped at a chair positioned at the end of the hall, its accompanying vanity stocked with double the supplies of the others.
Wren might have been gaping at the sheer amount of stuff on her vanity when a blue-haired artist flounced up to her. “Hi!” the woman chirped. She brimmed with such vitality that it eddied around her. “I’m Daisy! You’re Sloane. Of course you’re Sloane. Duh.” She widened her neon-green eyes and smacked her forehead. “I’ll be your personal artist for the show! You’re so pretty. I bet everyone tells you how pretty you are. I can’t wait to touch your face!”
Unbidden laughter bubbled out of Wren’s mouth. She couldn’t help it. Even Hutton was smiling, her hip propped on the vanity and arms crossed over her chest.
“What in the world is in that cup”—Wren pointed at the thermos Daisy was clutching—“and where can I get some?”
Daisy’s grin split her face. “It’s coffee! Just coffee! You’re so nice. Everyone warned me you would be so mean! What a bunch of sour cherries!”
Hutton laughed, the first real laugh Wren had ever heard from her. Her white teeth gleamed against the deep magenta hue of her lips. “Don’t let her fool you,” Hutton told Daisy. “She’s truly awful, but she knows the advantages of winning her artist’s favor. Right, Sloane?”
“When you’re right, you’re right.” Wren caught her smoothie’s straw between her lips and sucked out a long gulp.
“Sit! Sit!” Daisy waved toward the chair, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
Hutton stood to get out of the storm’s path and told Wren, “I have to finish up some work, but head downstairs to get some more breakfast if you’re hungry. I’ll be down before you start filming.”
Wren’s stomach flipped. She hadn’t been on set yet, and Hutton expected her to go alone? “You’re not coming with me?”
Hutton glanced at Daisy, but she was furiously cleaning a stack of brushes. “You’ll be fine.” She leaned into Wren’s ear and hissed, “You need to be seen on set. Hide in the kitchen if you need to, but get down there.”
Wren managed a weak nod.
Less than an hour later, Daisy finished by twisting a few simple curls through Wren’s hair to match the natural makeup look she’d applied. When Wren’s smoothie was empty and it was time to stand, Daisy helped her secure a small wireless microphone to her bra strap.
Daisy stepped back to examine her work. With a sharp nod, she whipped out the makeup brush resting on top of her ear and lowered it onto Wren’s shoulder. “I knight thee! Go forth into battle and be super hot!”
Giggling, Wren curtsied. “Thanks, Daisy. See you tomorrow.”
Daisy sputtered a farewell and collapsed into the chair.
The comfort and ease Wren had felt around Daisy evaporated as she descended the spiral stairs to the first-floor set. Without Hutton as her shield, Wren was exposed and vulnerable, which might have been the exact reason Hutton had abandoned her.
Everyone was gathered on the first floor of the penthouse for the morning call time. The window cleaners—hopefully a different company that had been vetted—banged around outside the windows, their lift moving up and down. The soupy water turned bright pink and ran in thick streams down the windows. Just seeing the color made Wren queasy, and she aimed straight for the kitchen’s swinging door.
Kruz sat on a counter, munching on dry cereal. He froze mid-chew.
“Hey.” She hoped she didn’t sound as relieved as she felt that he was in the kitchen and not Vik or Foster.
He quickly swallowed his bite. “Hello, Sloane Lux. I mean, Sloane. Just Sloane.”
Wren shifted uncertainly, and Kruz looked everywhere but at her eyes. A little late, it occurred to her that she was probably intimidating him by just standing there, staring at him. She’d never scared anyone before, and it was oddly exciting, but she angled away to get a glass from the cabinets.
“I, um …” he started as the water gurgled and spewed into her glass from the special system equipped in the refrigerator. The water smelled faintly sulfurous. “I wanted to thank you for last night. Sometimes I can, uh, panic, I guess. It was n-nice to have you there.”
Wren bit back her response, her instant n
eed to soothe his nerves, because Sloane wouldn’t do that. As much as it killed her, she forced herself to shrug off his comment. “No problem, Kruz.”
But even that morsel was enough for him to blossom beneath her approval and kindness. While it saddened Wren that people expected such a lashing from Sloane, she needed to capitalize on having a certified genius alone in a room with her.
“Speaking of the attack,” she said casually, “what did you think about it?”
“Think about it? Like am I thinking about it now? Or my exact thoughts as it happened?”
“Um …” Wren fumbled. “I mean, what are your thoughts on who did it or why?”
“I’m following. Let’s see.” He tapped his chin with his finger, and when he opened his mouth, words spilled out and Wren just tried to hang on. “I think whoever did it obviously has something against VidaCorp. No one would ever misconstrue that kind of attack as promotion, meaning the attacker is targeting pharmaceuticals. But using VidaCorp’s building and the show’s opening event suggests the attacker is also opposed to the show and what it represents: fame, beauty, wealth. They want to dirty it in the minds of citizens, along with VidaCorp’s name.”
He sucked in a breath and dove back under the waters of his thoughts, his words brimming with confidence as he spoke about something he understood.
“Whoever did it would have to have an insider in the firework production company, in addition to having plants in the window-cleaning services. The materials to dilute the red dye at certain points to form the letters are easy to obtain on the nets, but the timing is the fascinating part. The attack was calculated almost down to the minute and took into account a systematic degree of projection from the rigged fireworks. This leads me to believe there is more than one perpetrator and possibly a group—maybe one of the underground gangs with access to a truly fantastic engineer. It’s likely the Whitebirds, since they’ve been protesting VidaCorp the loudest and most effectively for the last few months. It’s an interesting dynamic. An underground gang is opposed to VidaCorp and its attempt to legalize Pacem, which is mind-boggling socioeconomically, because the introduction of new drugs often signals a boon for street dealers. But herein lies the crux: Pacem could potentially cure addiction if you ignore the potential genetic expression side effects for the sake of this conversation. By curing addiction, the gangs’ primary source of revenue—drugs—would be cut off at the source. It’s in all the gangs’ interest to bring down VidaCorp. What’s fascinating is that more gangs haven’t stepped up to ally with the Whitebirds.”
“Uh …” Wren managed.
“It’s all very, very interesting if you ask me, and you did. I think the closer we get to November’s election, the more heated things will become between VidaCorp and the Whitebirds. I also doubt this will be their last attempt to derail the show.”
Kruz collected his breath and waited for her contribution to the conversation.
“Uh,” she repeated, still stuck among the first couple sentences. “You thought about all that since last night?”
“Well, yeah,” Kruz said like she was a simpleton, and she felt like one when standing in the same room as this guy. His app was a big deal. Kruz was a big deal, though no one would ever assume so upon seeing the short Danish immigrant with bits of cereal stuck to the corner of his mouth. He was weird, the oddball out.
“Want some cereal?” He offered her the box. “I’ll share the marshmallow ones with you.”
Shaking her head in wonder, Wren took the box, stuck her hand inside, and pulled out a fistful. She hadn’t eaten much solid food in the last few weeks, but a few bites of cereal wouldn’t hurt. She pressed the handful into her mouth and chewed. It was so sweet her jaw ached.
The kitchen door banged open, and Vik prowled in. Her expression went slack as soon as she spotted Wren—Sloane—but then she carefully put on a smirk.
“Good morning,” she said, as frosty as the cool air cycling above them.
“Mo-morning,” Kruz stuttered.
“I hope you’re feeling better after last night,” she said to Kruz as she pulled out a water glass from the cabinets. “I heard you had a meltdown. I’d hate for viewers to see you looking like a scared little boy. Tell me, did your handler have to get those big-boy diapers for you last night? Did you wet the bed?”
Kruz shrank away and focused on his cereal.
“Oh well.” Vik crossed to the fridge and pressed her glass beneath the water dispenser. “Guess the little boy hasn’t learned how to talk yet.”
Laughing, she sashayed out of the room. The door swung behind her a few times before coming to a stop.
“Don’t let her bother you,” Wren said, handing the cereal box back to Kruz.
“I don’t. Much.”
“You could say something to her.”
A puff of cereal dust blew out from between Kruz’s lips in his surprise. “I don’t do stuff like that!”
“Stuff like what?”
“Confrontation. They always win.”
“Who?”
“The bullies.”
Something in the way his eyes wavered behind a sheen of tears infuriated Wren. People like Viksyn had probably bullied Kruz his entire life, but he was the smartest, richest, and most successful person on this show. Sloane had hurt Vik in the past, but that didn’t mean Vik got a free pass to be an asshole around Wren now. It wasn’t right that Vik got to say cruel things without repercussions. If Kruz wouldn’t stand up to her, Wren would.
She’d never had the backbone to stand up to her father or the kids at school who’d teased her because she was always smaller and frailer than everyone else, but she could stand up for Kruz. It didn’t hurt that she had Sloane’s face and her reputation to back her up; everyone was terrified of Sloane. It gave Wren the extra confidence she needed to decide.
“Not anymore,” she said, wiping off her hands.
Kruz almost dropped his cereal box.
Wren strode into the living room, where most of the cast was lounging. The late morning sun streamed in through the glass, setting off the flecks of silver in the slate-black fireplace. A feed from outside their building played on the television mounted above the mantle. The attack was top news on all the feeds today, but everyone ignored it in favor of Viksyn’s slithering, gossiping tongue.
“Have you seen how skinny she is? It’s so gross.”
“If it’s so gross, then why are you only eating lettuce and walnuts?” Foster smirked from his spot on the couch, his feet up on the armrest and his leather pants pulled tight across his thighs. He rested his head in the lap of one of the twins—Delphine or Daphne, Wren couldn’t tell. The other twin sat in a plush chair, doing her nails.
The mounted cameras were lit up green—hot—and they swiveled to follow the action in the room.
“Can you, like, survive on lettuce?” one of the twins asked. “I mean, isn’t that, like, eating air?”
“We’re vegan, Delphine,” the other twin—Daphne—said. “We don’t eat plants. Duh.”
From across the room, Beau looked up from the book he was reading. “I believe vegans actually eat plants. It’s animal by-products you don’t eat.”
Delphine’s eyes stretched wide. “Plants are people too!”
Foster hushed Delphine. “We interrupted Vik during her jealous tirade. By all means, continue regaling us with your vitriol.”
Viksyn glared. “You’re an idiot—”
“No, Vik, you’re an idiot,” Wren said. “And I’d appreciate it if you spoke about my friends with more respect.”
Viksyn leaped up from her chair and whirled to face Wren. “Respect? What would you know about respect, you drug-faming whore?”
A cold shiver ran down Wren’s spine. “Shut your mouth.”
From the corner of the room, a black hall door opened and a camera crew descended on the cast, with Maddox on their heels. He directed a sound guy with a large boom microphone over to Wren.
“More,” he mouthed.<
br />
Vik didn’t notice him, didn’t notice anything but Wren standing in front of her. “What’s wrong? Haven’t had your fix yet? Can’t put on a good show for the cameras without serking your face off?”
“Hey,” Daphne said, “that’s too far.”
“Go blow someone, Daphne.”
Delphine reared up and shoved Foster off her. “Don’t talk to my sister like that!”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Let me correct myself. Go blow your sister, Daphne.”
The twins gasped in unison. Foster laughed loudly, sprawling back across the couch. He pointed a finger at Vik. “If anyone should know about blowing their siblings, it’s you.”
Vik must have heard the words countless times before, because she hardly reacted on the outside.
Beau slapped his book closed. “Foster, I won’t allow you to speak to women like that in my presence.”
He put his Southern accent on thick, and Wren almost gagged. Delphine wrapped her arm around her sister’s waist, and they left the room with Beau murmuring comforting words to them. Foster remained on the couch, arms slung behind his head to settle in for the show. Maddox radioed in more cameramen.
With the cameras focused on her, Vik rounded back on Wren, honing her glare. “Your detox didn’t do much good. Maybe you should try overdosing again. That was the last time anyone cared about you.”
These people had no idea. Sloane had died. She’d overdosed. Maybe, in that last night, she’d truly believed no one cared for her. Wren lost it.
“What about you?” The anger clenched in her belly flared outward to consume her. “You’re so desperate to save your career. We all know this is your last-gasp effort to cling to a tendril of fame. You’re getting old, Vik. No one’s interested in you anymore. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? That’s why you hate me so much. The world was never that interested in you.”
Vik’s eyes turned wild as the words peeled back her flesh, exposing the muscle beneath.
Was this how Wren’s father felt after he struck her? Did inflicting pain on others ease his own? The horrible thought released the fist in Wren’s stomach, and she took a deep breath as if coming to, realizing what she’d done and who she’d become. Not Sloane, but her father.
