"Are you really willing to give this up?"

Marcy Kowalski had been my agent for six years. She had never once asked me a question twice. Now she leaned across her glass desk, tapping the contract with one red nail.

"Ivy. Look at me. This is the lead in a Desmond Ruiz film. Do you know how many girls would kill for this?"

I stared at the signature line. Three years. I had waited three years for a role like this.

"I know."

"Then sign it."

"Adrian's movie starts shooting next month," I said. "His mom just had her second fall. He needs someone at home."

"He needs a *housekeeper*." Marcy's voice went flat. "Hire one. You're an actress."

"He needs me."

She sat back and laughed. It wasn't a kind laugh. "Honey, men like Adrian Cole don't need anyone. They just get used to having someone."

I picked up the contract. The paper felt heavier than it should have.

Then I tore it in half.

Marcy didn't move. She didn't yell. She just watched me tear it again, and again, until the pieces fell on her desk like confetti at a party nobody wanted to go to.

"I want to be with him," I said.

"Okay." She swept the scraps into her trash can with one hand. "Don't call me in five years and cry."

---

I didn't call her in five years.

I was too busy.

I learned Adrian's schedule better than his assistant did. I cooked his meals, low-carb during shoots and comfort food after. I drove his mother to physical therapy every Tuesday and Thursday. I stood beside him on red carpets in dresses that made me look supportive, not stunning. When a critic shredded his performance, I read the review first so I could soften it before he saw it.

The tabloids called me "Hollywood's Perfect Partner."

Nobody called me an actress anymore.

"Adrian," I said one night, rubbing lotion into my hands at the vanity. "My cousin's getting married in June."

He didn't glance up from his script. "That's nice."

"We've been together five years."

"Mm-hm."

"I was thinking maybe we could set a date. Even a small one. Just family."

The pages stopped turning.

He set the script on his chest and smiled at me in the mirror. It was his press smile. Warm. Practiced. "Babe. You know the timing's wrong. This next film could change everything for me."

"You said that about the last one."

"And the last one got me here." He reached out, caught my wrist, and pulled me onto the bed beside him. "After this. I promise. Okay?"

His thumb traced circles on the back of my hand.

I nodded. I always nodded.

---

The new film was called *Northbound*. His co-star was Sienna Marsh, twenty-four years old and everywhere at once.

At first it was one photo. Adrian and Sienna laughing at a table read.

Then a video. Her arms around his neck at a fan event.

Then a headline: *Adrian & Sienna: Hollywood's Hottest New Pair?*

I was folding his shirts when his mother, Margaret, wheeled into the laundry room holding her tablet.

"Have you seen this?" She turned the screen toward me. Sienna, kissing Adrian's cheek on a talk show couch. "That girl is all over my son."

"It's for the movie," I said.

"Is it?" Margaret's eyes narrowed. "When his father said things were 'for work,' I ended up raising a boy alone."

I smoothed a collar that was already smooth.

---

Adrian came home past midnight. I was waiting in the kitchen with the lights on.

"Hey." He dropped his keys in the bowl. "You're up late."

"You held her hand on the red carpet tonight."

He paused halfway through loosening his tie. "What?"

"Sienna. You held her hand. For the whole walk." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "And yesterday you had your arm around her waist at the photo call. And on Monday—"

"Ivy."

"—she sat on your lap at the press junket, Adrian. On your *lap*."

He laughed.

Not a nervous laugh. A real one, like I had told him a joke. He crossed the kitchen in three steps and wrapped his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder.

"You're jealous," he said into my ear. "That's kind of cute."

"I'm not being cute. I'm asking if it's too much."

"It's promo, babe. The studio wants chemistry. Chemistry sells tickets." He kissed my neck. "You were in this business. You know how it works."

*Were.* He said it so easily.

"Do you remember what I gave up?" I asked.

His arms loosened, just a little. "Of course I remember."

"Then don't make me feel stupid for it."

"Hey." He turned me around and cupped my face. His eyes were soft and brown and sincere. They had always been his best feature on camera. "You're the only woman I come home to. Sienna is a coworker. That's it. Trust me?"

I searched his face for a long time.

"Okay," I whispered. "I trust you."

"That's my girl." He kissed my forehead and headed upstairs. "I'm gonna shower. Long day."

---

His phone was still on the counter.

I wasn't going to touch it. I had never once gone through his phone in five years. I picked up his keys to put them away properly, the way I always did, and the screen lit up beside my hand.

A message preview.

**Sienna 🌙**

I didn't mean to read it. My eyes did it before my brain could stop them.

*Are you staying at my place again tonight? She won't find out.*

The keys slipped out of my fingers and hit the marble floor.

Upstairs, the shower was running.

And Adrian was humming.

I picked up the keys.

I set his phone back on the counter, screen down, exactly where he'd left it. Then I turned off the kitchen lights and went upstairs.

The shower stopped. Adrian came out with a towel around his hips, still humming.

"You coming to bed?"

"In a minute."

I brushed my teeth for a long time. Long enough that when I finally slid under the covers, he was already asleep.

---

In the morning, he kissed my forehead on his way out the door.

"Don't wait up tonight," he said, patting his pockets. "It's gonna be a late one."

"Lots of promo?"

"Mm."

He was scrolling through something on his phone. He didn't look at me. Not once.

The door clicked shut behind him, and I stood in the hallway holding his coffee mug. He'd forgotten to take it.

---

After that, I started noticing things.

Small things at first. A late dinner at a sushi place in West Hollywood, posted by a fan account. Adrian and Sienna in the back booth, her leg tucked under her, his jacket over her shoulders.

Then a private party in the Hills. No press. No studio. Just the two of them, caught in the background of someone's Instagram story.

Then the interview.

I was folding towels in the living room when it came on. Some morning show with bright yellow couches.

"So, everyone wants to know," the host said, leaning in with a grin. "What's really going on between you two?"

Sienna giggled and hid her face against Adrian's arm.

He didn't laugh it off. He didn't say *I have a partner at home*. He just smiled that slow, crooked smile and said, "We have a lot of chemistry."

The audience screamed.

I turned off the TV. The towel in my hands was folded into a perfect square. I unfolded it and folded it again.

---

"You told them you have chemistry."

Adrian didn't stop untying his shoes. It was after one in the morning.

"Ivy, come on. It's late."

"On national television. You didn't even mention me."

"Because nobody cares about my personal life during a press tour." He kicked one shoe toward the closet. "They care about the movie."

"You went to a party with her on Saturday. You told me you were at a script meeting."

His jaw tightened. "Are you following fan accounts now?"

"They're everywhere, Adrian. I don't have to follow anything."

"Okay." He stood up and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. When he dropped them, his face had gone hard. "We've talked about this. You know how this industry works. It's work."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it keeps being true." His voice rose, then flattened. "I'm exhausted. I've been smiling at cameras for fourteen hours. I don't need to come home and get interrogated."

"I'm not interrogating you. I'm asking."

"It feels the same."

He walked into the bathroom and shut the door.

I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the shoe he'd left in the middle of the floor.

*It's work. It's promo. It's chemistry.*

I'd been saying those words to myself for weeks. To his mother. To my sister on the phone. To the woman at the grocery store who held up a tabloid and asked if I was okay.

I'd become very good at making excuses for him.

Five years ago, I had my own trailer. My own call sheet. A director who said I had the best instincts he'd seen in a decade. I tore up a contract for this man. I turned down two pilots and a stage play. I let my agent stop calling.

He never once asked me if I regretted it.

Not once.

The shower turned on. I picked up his shoe and put it in the closet.

---

Thursday night, he had a private dinner at the Larkspur Hotel. Studio executives, a few investors. Sienna, of course.

"Partners aren't invited," he'd said that morning, knotting his tie in the mirror. "Super boring. You'd hate it."

I found the folder at seven-thirty, sitting on the kitchen island. A thick black one with the studio's logo on the cover.

I called him. It rang out.

I texted. *You left the investor packet at home. Do you need it?*

Nothing.

I called his assistant, Priya.

"Oh no," she groaned. "Yes. He needs it. He's presenting the budget breakdown at nine. I'm stuck in traffic on the 405. Is there any way—"

"I'll bring it."

"You're a lifesaver, Ivy. Suite 1204. They're doing drinks upstairs before dinner."

---

The elevator opened onto a quiet hallway with thick carpet that swallowed my footsteps.

Suite 1204 was at the end. The door wasn't fully closed. Someone had propped it with the security latch, the way people do when they're expecting room service.

I lifted my hand to knock.

Then I heard Sienna's voice.

"Are you seriously going to keep hiding this from her?"

My knuckles stopped an inch from the wood.

"Keep your voice down," Adrian said.

"Nobody's here yet. They're all still at the bar." Ice clinked in a glass. "I mean it, Adrian. How long? I'm tired of sneaking around like some side piece."

"You're not a side piece."

"Then what am I?"

A pause. I heard him exhale, the long, tired sigh he used when a director asked for one more take.

"I can't end things right now."

"Why not?"

"Because she's still useful to me."

The folder slipped against my ribs. I caught it before it fell.

"Useful," Sienna repeated. She sounded almost amused.

"My mom loves her. The press loves her. 'Hollywood's Perfect Partner,' remember?" His voice was low and easy. The voice he used to say *I love you*. "If I dump her in the middle of a press tour, I look like the bad guy. The studio would kill me. Just wait until *Northbound* opens. Then it's done."

"And she has no idea?"

He laughed softly. "Ivy believes anything I tell her."

My fingers had gone ice cold. I couldn't feel the edges of the folder anymore.

I didn't cry.

That was the strange part. I stood in that hallway, five years of my life collapsing a foot away from me, and my eyes stayed completely dry.

Inside, Sienna said something I didn't catch. Adrian laughed again.

I looked down at the folder in my hands. His budget breakdown. His presentation. His big night.

The elevator dinged at the end of the hall.

Footsteps. Voices. The investors were coming up.

And the door in front of me swung open.

The door swung open, and a server in a white jacket backed out, pulling an empty cart.

He nearly ran me over. "Oh! Sorry, ma'am. Are you with the party?"

Behind him, I could see the edge of a sofa. A bottle of champagne sweating in a bucket. Sienna's bare foot, swinging.

"No," I said. I held out the folder. "Could you give this to Mr. Cole? Tell him it's from home."

"Sure. Who should I say—"

"He'll know."

He took it and pushed the door back toward its latch. It didn't close all the way. It never had.

I should have walked away. My feet wouldn't move.

Inside, Sienna laughed. Then her voice dropped, playful and lazy.

"Okay, but seriously. What if she finds out?"

Silence.

It went on so long that I thought maybe he'd heard me. Maybe he was crossing the room right now. Maybe he would open the door and see my face and finally feel something.

Then the ice in his glass rattled.

"She won't leave me."

He didn't say it like a hope. He said it like a weather report. Like the sun comes up, like the 405 is always jammed, like Ivy will always be there.

And I laughed.

It slipped out of me, short and quiet, right there on the thick hotel carpet. I pressed my hand over my mouth, but it kept shaking out of me in little bursts.

Five years. Five years of Tuesdays and Thursdays and low-carb dinners and softened reviews. And to him, it wasn't love. It wasn't sacrifice.

It was just a given.

The elevator voices got closer. A man in a gray suit glanced at me as he passed. "You alright, hon?"

"I'm great," I said. "Have a good dinner."

I took the stairs all the way down.

---

The next morning, I made his eggs.

Two whites, one yolk, spinach, no salt. I'd made them a thousand times. My hands knew the way even when my mind was somewhere far off.

Adrian came down rubbing his hair with a towel. He kissed the top of my head and grabbed his phone off the counter.

"You're a lifesaver, by the way," he said, already scrolling. "The folder. Priya said you dropped it off."

"Did the presentation go well?"

"Killed it." He took a bite standing up. "Why didn't you come in?"

I turned the burner off. "You said partners weren't invited."

"Right." He laughed. "Yeah. Super boring."

He didn't notice that I hadn't made my own plate. He didn't notice that I'd been up since four. He didn't notice my eyes, which I'd checked in the mirror, and which looked exactly the same as always.

That was the worst part. I looked exactly the same.

"Oh, hey." He swiped his keys from the bowl. "Don't wait up tonight. Night shoot with Sienna. Probably till three or four."

"Okay."

He paused in the doorway. For one second, I thought he might turn around.

"You're not gonna give me a hard time about it?"

"No," I said. "Go to work."

He grinned like I'd handed him a gift. "See? This is why I love you."

The door shut.

I stood there and waited for the words to hurt. They didn't. They just sat in the kitchen like the steam rising off his half-eaten eggs.

---

That night, for the first time in five years, I didn't wait up.

I went into the bedroom and opened the closet.

His side was full. Suits in dry-cleaning bags, sorted by color. My side was a narrow strip near the wall. Supportive dresses. Neutral cardigans. A pair of running shoes I'd bought for a role I never took.

Way in the back, behind a garment bag, I found my old audition binder. Headshots. Sides from scripts. A sticky note in my handwriting: *Trust the pause.*

I sat on the floor and held it for a while.

Then I packed.

One suitcase. One duffel bag. It didn't take long. That surprised me. Five years, and my whole life fit into two bags with room to spare.

I didn't cry. I didn't throw anything. I didn't write him a long letter on the bathroom mirror like a woman in a movie.

I was just tired. Bone tired, the kind that sleep doesn't fix.

I slept in the guest room with the door locked.

---

"Ivy?"

His voice came up the stairs at seven-fifteen. Then faster footsteps. Then the closet door banging open.

"Ivy!"

I was already downstairs, sitting at the kitchen island with my coat on. The suitcase stood by the front door.

He came around the corner in last night's shirt, wrinkled and untucked. His hair was a mess. For once, he looked like nobody was watching.

"Where's your stuff?" He pointed back toward the stairs. "Half the closet's empty. Where are you going?"

"Away from here."

"Away—" He stared at the suitcase, then at me. "What does that mean? Away where?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes, it matters!" He dragged a hand down his face. Then his eyes sharpened. "Is this about Sienna? Did you see something online again? Because I told you—"

"It's not about her."

"Then what?"

I folded my hands on the marble. They were steady.

"I finally figured out that I don't want to be your accessory anymore."

He blinked. "My what?"

"Your accessory. Your perfect partner. The thing you wear on red carpets so people think you're a good guy."

"That's insane. That's not—" He shook his head hard. "Babe, listen to me. Whatever you think is happening with Sienna, it's publicity. It's for the movie. I never actually cheated on you. Okay? Nothing real happened."

*Are you staying at my place again tonight?*

*She's still useful to me.*

*She won't leave me.*

I could have said it all back to him, word for word. I could have watched his face fall apart.

I didn't. I just slid the ring off my finger.

It was a simple band with a tiny sapphire. He'd given it to me on our second anniversary. *A promise ring*, he'd called it. *Until the timing's right.*

I set it on the counter between us. It made a small, clean click.

He looked down at it like it might bite him.

"Ivy. Come on."

"We were never married," I said, standing up. "So I guess I don't have anything else to give back."

I picked up my duffel bag. I walked toward the door.

My hand was on the suitcase handle when his fingers closed around my wrist.

Hard. Desperate. Not the soft grip from the bedroom. Not the press-smile grip from the red carpet.

I turned.

His eyes were wet. On camera, they'd always been his best feature.

"Are you really willing to leave me?" he asked.

Six years ago, someone else had asked me almost the same question.

Back then, I'd given the wrong answer.