Off-Script

Evelyn’s POV

His name was Ernie, and he worked at Sunset Studios—or so his Instagram bio claimed. His profile was filled with pictures of studio backlots, red-carpet events, and enough selfies with C-list celebrities to make him look important – if you squinted. He always seemed to be just out of frame from the people who actually mattered, but I wasn’t picky. He was connected, and in this city, connected was better than nice.

He messaged my agent for a date, which was new to me. Usually, men just slid into my DMs with poorly punctuated lines about how good my tits looked in my latest post, or worse, with emojis they thought could do the heavy lifting. But Ernie went through official channels, as if I were a casting call and he’d been shortlisted for the role of my boyfriend. I couldn’t decide if it was flattering or pathetic.

My agent forwarded me the message with a note that read, “This could be interesting.” Interesting, in this case, meant he worked at a studio and might be worth the vodka soda it would take to sit through a conversation with him. I agreed to the date because, honestly, why not? He was attractive in that polished L.A. way—good jawline, gym-polished muscles, hair that probably required an absurd amount of product. And if he worked at Sunset Studios – one of the biggest names in town – there was at least a chance he could be useful.

We met at The Dresden, a place I’d heard of but never been to. It was one of those old-school Hollywood haunts that made you feel like you should’ve arrived in a vintage convertible. 

I was ten minutes late, a calculated move. I walked in wearing a dark blue dress that clung to me like a second skin and heels that made me half a foot taller. My hair was loose, falling in glossy waves over my shoulders. I wanted him to look at me and think, This is a woman worth knowing.

He was already seated in one of the booths, fiddling with a martini glass. He stood when he saw me, grinning like he’d just won something. “Evelyn,” he said, dragging out my name. “Wow. You look incredible.”

“Thanks,” I said lightly, sliding into the booth. “Nice place. Do you come here a lot?”

He leaned back, trying for nonchalance. “Yeah, I know the owner. This is where the real industry people come to unwind. You never know who you’ll run into.”

It was a bold claim for someone whose Instagram was more aspiring than inspiring, but I let him talk. For the next hour, he went on about his job at Sunset Studios—how he had big ideas, knew important people, and was just waiting for his chance to really make waves. I sipped my vodka soda and nodded at all the right moments, though my attention wandered more than once.

He wasn’t terrible, but he wasn’t compelling either. He was a filler episode in a season where I was waiting for the real plot to start.

About halfway through his monologue about the “inner workings” of the studio, my gaze drifted to the bar. A man in a sleek blazer was sitting with another man, both of them exuding a kind of effortless cool a man like Ernie could only dream of. The man in the blazer caught my eye, his expression calm but curious. His gaze lingered, and I felt a flicker of something I hadn’t felt all night—real interest.

“Do you know that guy?” I asked, interrupting Ernie mid-sentence.

Ernie turned, his face tightening when he saw who I meant. “Yeah, that’s Harry Cameron. Big producer at Sunset Studios. You’ve probably heard of him. Busy guy.”

Busy or not, Mr. Cameron was walking toward us. His presence shifted the air in the room. He didn’t just walk; he moved with purpose. The way he was looking at me, it was like he’d already decided we were going to talk.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said smoothly when he reached the table. He glanced at Ernie briefly but turned his full attention to me. “But I couldn’t help noticing you from across the room. What’s your name?”

“Evelyn. Evelyn Hugo.” 

“Evelyn,” he repeated, his lips curving into a smile. “Have you ever thought about acting?”

I blinked. “Not really. I’m a model.”

His eyes flicked over me, assessing. “Interesting. You’ve got a look. Something that could translate on screen.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black business card, placing it on the table in front of me. “If you’re curious, give me a call. We’re always looking for new talent.”

I glanced at the card. Harry Cameron, Sunset Studios. It wasn’t an invitation, not exactly, but it was a possibility. And I have never been one to waste an opportunity. 

“Thanks,” I said, tucking the card into my purse.

Harry nodded, his smile lingering for just a moment longer before he turned and walked back to the bar.

Ernie stared into his martini, his shoulders stiff. “Guys like him say that to every pretty girl. Don’t let it go to your head.”

I glanced back at the bar, where Harry had returned to his seat. He was leaning in close to the man he’d been with. Their shoulders brushed, then their hands. It didn’t take much to put the pieces together. Harry wasn’t interested in me, not like that. He was gay—obviously. And it was laughable that Ernie hadn’t noticed. He was so wrapped up in his own fragile ego that he couldn’t see the bigger picture, couldn’t understand why Harry had come over in the first place.

“Thanks for the advice, Ernie,” I said, keeping my voice breezy. “But I think I’ll take my chances.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. What could he say? The power dynamic had shifted, and we both knew it.

“Thanks for the drink, Ernie,” I said, standing and grabbing my purse.

“You’re leaving?” he asked, startled.

“Yeah. Early morning.” It was a lie, but it didn’t matter.

Outside, the air smelled of exhaust, and the lingering hum of traffic was a fly in my ear. Classic Los Angeles. Sometimes, I couldn’t decide whether I loved the place or hated it. That night, despite the insane Uber rates and the homeless man peeing on the street corner, I decided I loved it. Because it was giving me a chance—a big chance.

Harry Cameron’s card sat in my purse, burning like a hot coal. I wanted to pull it out right then and there, run my fingers over the gold-embossed logo, and let myself dream about what it could mean. Instead, I got an Uber and spent the ride home staring out the window, my mind racing with possibilities.

Acting wasn’t something I’d ever seriously considered. Modeling and influencing had been my ticket out of the Bronx, and I was good at it. Better than good. But there was a ceiling to what I could do with my looks and a curated Instagram feed. Acting, though – that was a whole new level. It was clout, power, permanence. The kind of fame that didn’t just fade when the next pretty face came along.

By the time I got home, I’d already decided I was going to call him. Not that night—that would seem desperate. Tomorrow, I’d call him, cool and composed, and see where this door he’d cracked open could lead.

I kicked off my heels and collapsed onto the couch in my living room. I couldn’t stop thinking about Harry’s face when he’d approached me. It wasn’t like Ernie’s overeager grin or the way most men looked at me, all hungry and shallow. Harry had seen something. Something no one else had.

My mind drifted to Celia St. James of all people. I hadn’t thought about her in weeks, but the memory of her words—so sharp, so dismissive—rushed back like a slap. Decoration. That’s what she’d called me. As if everything I’d worked for, everything I’d clawed my way toward, was nothing more than a pretty picture hanging on a goddamn wall.

“Well, Celia,” I muttered to myself, staring at Harry’s card. “Let’s see how decorative I am now.”

•••

My agent called Harry and got a meeting set up at Sunset Studios, over in their satellite studio in Burbank. It was the kind of place you imagined when you thought of old Hollywood—the sprawling lot with massive sound stages, the buzz of golf carts zipping between offices, the smell of fresh paint on backdrops. I arrived fifteen minutes early, dressed in a fitted navy blouse and high-waisted slacks. I wanted to look professional but still leave an impression.

Harry’s assistant greeted me in the lobby. “Right this way,” she said, leading me through the maze of offices until we reached Harry’s.

His office was minimalist but expensive, with framed movie posters on the walls and a massive glass desk in the center. Harry stood as I entered, offering a warm smile and a firm handshake.

“Evelyn,” he said, motioning for me to sit. “Glad you could make it.”

“Thanks for having me,” I said, taking the chair opposite him. I crossed my legs and straightened my back, pushing out my chest.

He leaned back in his chair, studying me for a moment. “I’ve been thinking about you since the other night. You’ve got a look. The kind of presence that demands attention. That’s not something you can fake.”

“Thank you,” I said. I knew that compliments like that from a man like Harry weren’t handed out lightly. There were a million pretty girls in Los Angeles and very few got to talk to producers of major studios.

“Evelyn…do you speak Spanish?”

The question caught me off guard. “Yes,” I said cautiously. “I grew up speaking it. Why?”

His lips curved into a satisfied smile. “Good. That’s going to make this much easier.”

I tilted my head, intrigued but wary. “Easier for what?”

He leaned back again, his fingers steepling in front of him. “There’s a show—La Vida Rosa. It’s one of the top Spanish-language dramas on TV right now. Massive audience, huge appeal. They’re looking for someone to fill a guest role. Three episodes, maybe more if the character lands well.”

I had heard of it, mostly from late-night scrolling on streaming platforms. The acting was over-the-top, the plots recycled soap opera tropes, and the production values screamed “budget.” It wasn’t the kind of show you bragged about watching, but it had an audience—and a loyal one at that.

“They’re looking for someone to guest-star in an upcoming arc,” Harry continued. “Three episodes, maybe more if the audience responds well. They need someone striking. Someone who can walk into a scene and make people forget the script is terrible.”

“And you think that’s me?”

Harry nodded. “I know it’s you.”

“I don’t have any acting experience,” I admitted.

He waved a hand, dismissive. “You don’t need it. They’re not looking for an Oscar performance. They need presence. That’s you. The rest, we can work on.”

As silly as the show was, a guest role on La Vida Rosa wasn’t just a job—it was a launchpad. A chance to prove I was more than the sum of my photoshoots and social media followers.

“When does it start?” I asked.

“They’ll want a screen test first,” he said. “But filming starts next week. The part is yours if you want it.”

I leaned back, my fingers brushing over the strap of my purse. This wasn’t what I’d planned when I walked into his office, but maybe that was the point. Plans could only take you so far.

“I want it,” I said, meeting his gaze. “What’s the next step?”

“Penny will get you set up with some acting lessons.” Harry grinned, standing and extending a hand. “Welcome to Hollywood, Evelyn.”

•••

The acting lessons weren’t easy, but after a few sessions, I could hold my own. At least enough to fake confidence, which, as Penny, Sunset’s acting coach, liked to remind me, was half the battle. Acting wasn’t just about memorizing lines or hitting marks; it was about presence. “You can’t just say the words, Evelyn,” she’d bark during one session, pacing the studio like a frustrated director. “You’ve got to make us feel them.”

I’d nod, trying to absorb it all while fighting the instinct to slip back into modeling habits—posing, angling, letting my face do all the heavy lifting. It didn’t take long to realize that Hollywood moved faster than I expected. Even faster than the modeling world, where one missed campaign could mean irrelevance. One day, I was fumbling through exercises meant to loosen me up and “access vulnerability,” and the next, I was standing in front of a stylist while she clipped hair extensions into my freshly bleached hair. 

And I mean bleached.

The dye job was dramatic. My hair went from dark brown to honey blonde in one sitting. It was striking, and exactly the kind of attention-grabbing change the director insisted Sofia would have. “She’s a bombshell,” he had said, gesturing vaguely with a cigarette while the stylist examined my roots. “And bombshells don’t blend in.”

Sofia was every soap opera trope rolled into one—a sleazy, gold-digging femme fatale hell-bent on stealing the boyfriend of one of the main heroines. She was manipulative, selfish, and unapologetically sexy, which I suspected was code for “wears low-cut dresses and flirts a lot.” It wasn’t the kind of role that screamed substance, but it had teeth. And teeth were better than nothing.

The first day on set was chaos. The studio was smaller than I expected, with walls that didn’t quite reach the ceiling and furniture that looked better on camera than up close. Crew members buzzed around, adjusting lights and moving props while the director barked orders from behind the monitor. The heat from the lights was suffocating, and by the time I stepped into my first scene, my freshly powdered face was already starting to shine.

The scene was straightforward: Sofia meeting Rafael, the brooding lead, at a dimly lit bar. She was supposed to light his cigarette, toss out a flirty one-liner, and leave him intrigued but wary. Simple enough in theory, but the execution was another story. I’d rehearsed the lines a dozen times in my head, but as soon as the camera rolled, everything felt stilted. My movements, my delivery, even the way I held the damn lighter—it all felt wrong.

It didn’t help that I hadn’t spoken Spanish regularly since I left the Bronx. Sure, I still slipped into it with my mom on the phone or when yelling at the occasional cab driver, but it wasn’t the polished, melodramatic Spanish the script demanded. The words felt foreign in my mouth, like I was trying to force poetry out of a voice that had long since adapted to English slang.

“Cut!” the director barked, dragging his hand down his face in exaggerated frustration. “Evelyn, the line isn’t hola like you’re greeting your abuelita. It’s Hola,” he said, leaning into the word like it was dripping with honey and menace. “You’re Sofia. You own this moment. You seduce him.”

I wanted to snap back, tell him I wasn’t a seductress, I was a model who had just learned what “blocking” meant last week. But instead, I nodded and forced a smile. “Got it.”

We reset. The crew adjusted the lights, Rafael sat back down at the bar, and I took my place in the doorway, fiddling with the prop lighter in my hand. I closed my eyes for a brief moment, thinking of what Penny had told me at one of our last sessions: Make them believe you. You don’t have to be Sofia—you just have to make them believe you are.

I couldn’t become a character. I wasn’t “method.” But I’ve always been a damn good liar.

“Action!”

I walked into the scene. Rafael glanced up from his drink, his brooding expression exactly as it had been in every other take. I pulled out the lighter and leaned in, letting the flame catch his cigarette before I delivered the line.

“Cuidado con el fuego,” I said, my voice low and teasing. “Quema más de lo que piensas.”

Careful with fire. It burns more than you think.

The words came out smoother this time. I saw Rafael’s eyebrow lift just slightly, his lips curving into a small, intrigued smile.

“Cut!” the director called. He didn’t sound angry, which felt like a minor miracle. “Better. We’ll take it again, and this time, Evelyn, let’s see that confidence in your eyes.”

Another reset. Another round of adjustments. I was starting to feel like a mannequin being repositioned over and over again, but I pushed through it. By the fourth take, something clicked. The lines flowed better, my movements felt less forced, and when Rafael looked at me, I let Sofia’s smug, sultry confidence shine through.

The director didn’t say “great” when we wrapped the scene, but he didn’t say “again” either. That was victory enough for me.

•••

I slept with Rafael after I signed on to play Sofia in five additional episodes. It wasn’t planned. It just happened. He was attractive and I actually rather liked him. And he obviously liked me.

We’d been celebrating the news of my extended role. The producers had pulled me aside earlier that day. “The audience can’t stop talking about Sofia,” one of them said. “You’re polarizing, Evelyn. And that’s exactly what we need.”

Apparently, the female audiences hated me—hated Sofia. The gold-digging, man-stealing femme fatale wasn’t designed to win their hearts, and I couldn’t blame them. Every time Sofia smirked into the camera, stealing another boyfriend or delivering a scathing one-liner, I imagined women across Latin America throwing pillows at their TVs.

But the male audiences – they couldn’t get enough. Sofia’s tight dresses and devil-may-care attitude made them tune in, week after week. And for La Vida Rosa, a show that had always catered to women, this was new territory. My addition to the cast hadn’t just caused a stir—it had doubled the show’s viewership.

“You’re bringing in a whole new demographic,” the director said, his cigarette dangling from his lips as he flipped through a list of ratings. “Keep doing what you’re doing.”

That night, a few of us decided to celebrate. Someone suggested a bar downtown. By the time I arrived, the drinks were flowing, and Rafael was already holding court at the bar, wearing a black velvet blazer and a white shirt underneath – with most of the buttons undone. 

He spotted me as soon as I walked in. “Evelyn!” he called, holding up a glass. “Come, drink with us.”

I made my way over, slipping into the crowd of cast and crew. Rafael handed me a drink—a tequila soda, light on the soda—and raised his glass in a toast. “To Evelyn,” he said over the chatting of Spanish and English. “The queen of controversy.”

“To controversy,” I said, laughing as our glasses clinked.

As the night went on, the line between work and play blurred. Rafael and I danced, his hands resting on my waist as the music pulsed around us. We drank and laughed. He told stories about his childhood in Mexico City, about sneaking into movie theaters as a kid, and I found myself leaning into him, caught up in the glow of it all.

We left the bar together, the night stretching out before us in a haze of neon lights and shared laughter. By the time we stumbled into his apartment, I wasn’t thinking about Sofia or viewership or what the tabloids might say if they ever found out. I was just thinking about the way his lips felt on mine, the warmth of his hands on my bare skin.

The next morning, I woke up in his bed, the sun streaming through the curtains. Rafael was still asleep. I was hungover and tired. I slipped out quietly, grabbed my shoes and dress, and caught an Uber home.

Shooting continued like clockwork. The same sets, the same recycled drama. I knocked out the five episodes with precision, hitting my marks, delivering my lines, playing the part the way they wanted it played. By the end of the arc, I was in talks for more. The producers loved me, and the audience couldn’t seem to look away.

The money was rolling in faster than it ever had before. Direct deposits hit my account with a rhythm that felt almost obscene. I’d never seen numbers like that before, not on anything with my name attached to it. Growing up, money was something you stretched, something you pinched and made excuses for, something you apologized about. Now it was abundant, and I wasn’t apologizing for a damn thing.

I started buying things I never thought I’d own—designer bags that came in dust bags as soft as clouds, shoes that clicked against polished floors like sharp little punctuation marks. I ate at high-end restaurants with menus that didn’t bother listing prices, ordering whatever I wanted without flinching. And for the first time, I paid for it all myself. No man’s credit card, no coy smiles across a table hoping he’d pick up the tab. Just me.

Still, walking the lots at Sunset Studios made me feel small. Tiny, really. I’d park my car and step onto the asphalt, always careful not to smudge my lipstick or scuff my shoes, and I’d see them: the movie stars. The big ones. Women whose faces lit up blockbusters, whose names could anchor an entire awards show season. They strolled between trailers like they belonged there, their assistants trailing behind them like polite shadows.

They spoke English on screen. Their scripts were full of roles that critics called "layered" and "complex," while mine were packed with double-crosses and catfights. They were getting invites to Vanity Fair parties while I was angling for a guest spot on a late-night talk show.

I know how it sounds—how ungrateful, how un-woke of me. But I didn’t want to be a Latina character forever. I didn’t want to be Sofia, or Maria, or any other name that came with a spicy accent and a wink at the camera. I wanted more.

I’d grown up in a world where Spanish was survival, a shorthand for home, for my mother’s voice calling me in for dinner and my father’s curses. But here, in Hollywood, Spanish felt like a box, a border drawn around me that I couldn’t cross. And as much as I hated to admit it, I wanted out of that box. I wanted to break the frame entirely.

The actresses I saw on the lot—blonde, brunette, sometimes daringly redheaded—weren’t carrying the same weight. Their ethnicity wasn’t their selling point, wasn’t the first adjective in the reviews written about them. They weren’t walking representations; they were individuals, stars, icons. And I wanted that for myself, no matter the cost.

So, I did the only thing I knew to do. I marched straight into Harry Cameron’s office.

Harry was on the phone when I opened the door, leaning back in his chair with the kind of casual authority only men like him seemed to master. He raised an eyebrow at me, then held up a finger, signaling for me to wait. I didn’t. I stepped in, shut the door behind me, and crossed my arms.

When he finally hung up, he sighed and gestured toward the chair in front of his desk. “What’s so urgent, Evelyn?”

“I want a bigger role,” I said, skipping the pleasantries and sitting down. “A lead. Something... English-speaking. Like that new movie in the works, Vegas Shine. Or Peaches in Summer. Or—”

“Evelyn.” He held up a hand, his voice calm but firm. “You’re doing great on La Vida Rosa—” he said the name with a hard Midwestern twang that made it sound like a bad imitation of what the show actually was— “but I don’t think you’re big enough for those films yet.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but he kept going, leaning forward now like he was delivering sage advice. “Look, there are some great Latinx projects coming down the pipeline that I think you’d be perfect for. Important stories. Stories that—”

“No,” I said sharply, cutting him off mid-pitch.

His eyes widened slightly, the first crack in his usual composed demeanor. “Excuse me?”

“No,” I repeated, leaning forward. “I’m not interested in being pigeonholed, Harry. I don’t want to play another ‘spicy Latina’ or the immigrant mother who struggles to make ends meet. I want to be a star. And stars aren’t defined by their ethnicity.”

He blinked at me, stunned into silence for a moment. Then he leaned back again, crossing his arms. “Evelyn, I understand where you’re coming from—”

“Do you?” I shot back. “Because it feels like you’re telling me I should be grateful for the scraps I’ve been given. Meanwhile, you’re casting white girls in every lead role worth having.”

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose like I was giving him a headache. “It’s not that simple. These films are built around marketability. Names that already draw an audience. You’re not there yet.”

“Then get me there,” I said, my voice firm. “That’s your job, isn’t it? You saw something in me once, Harry. Enough to give me a shot on La Vida Rosa. And look what I’ve done with it. I’m doubling their viewership, for God’s sake. Don’t tell me I can’t do the same for a film.”

He looked at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he exhaled, his shoulders relaxing just slightly. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.”

“Guts aren’t going to get me a lead role,” I said. “You are.”

Harry shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Not a chance,” I said.

He tapped his fingers against the edge of his desk, the rhythmic drumming filling the silence. “All right,” he said finally. “I’ll talk to Ari about it.”

Ari was the head of the studio—a portly man who’d inherited the job the same way someone inherits an old family estate, more out of tradition than merit. He rarely left his office, preferring to conduct business behind a massive mahogany desk that made him look even smaller than he already was. If Harry was bringing my name to Ari, it meant he was taking me seriously. But it also meant this wasn’t going to be simple.

“Thank you,” I said, standing.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Harry replied, leaning back in his chair. He studied me for a moment, his expression shifting into something sharper, more calculating. “There’s something else we need to talk about.”

I frowned, hesitating. “What?”

“Rafael,” he said flatly.

I blinked, caught off guard. “What about him?”

Harry raised an eyebrow, his face impassive. “Evelyn, you’re not as subtle as you think. Word gets around, especially on a set as small and gossipy as La Vida Rosa.”

Heat crept up my neck, but I didn’t look away. “What I do in my personal life is my business.”

“Not if you want to be a lead,” he countered. “You’re trying to transition out of soap operas and guest roles into real films. Do you know what that means? It means every decision you make—from who you date to what you wear to a coffee run—is going to be scrutinized. If you want to be taken seriously, you need to clean up your image.”

I crossed my arms, leaning back against the chair. “And how do you suggest I do that?”

Harry’s mouth twitched, like he was debating whether to say what he was about to say. “You need to fix yourself to someone who elevates you. Someone who already has the kind of reputation you want. An action star, maybe. Someone like Don Adler.”

“Don Adler?” I repeated, my tone skeptical. I’d seen Don Adler’s name in headlines more times than I could count, always paired with words like “Hollywood’s golden boy.” He was ruggedly handsome with a square jaw and a swath of dirty blonde hair. And he had famous parents – rom-com stars from the 90s – the kind of industry royalty that opened doors most people didn’t even know existed. Don Adler wasn’t just famous; he was legacy. The kind of star who didn’t need to claw his way to the top because he was born halfway up the ladder.

“He’s got the kind of pull you need to get your foot in the door. And the press eats up every woman he’s seen with. If you’re smart, you’ll use that to your advantage.”

I crossed my arms, trying to hide my unease. “And what exactly am I supposed to do? Stroll up to him at a party and ask if he wants to date me for the press?”

Harry smirked, shaking his head. “It’s not that simple, but it’s not rocket science either. Don likes women. Beautiful women, specifically. You’ve got that covered.”

I rolled my eyes, but he pressed on. “Go to the events he goes to. Make sure you’re in the right rooms, talking to the right people. You don’t have to throw yourself at him, but if you play it right, he’ll come to you. Trust me, Don Adler’s the kind of guy who loves to chase.”

“And if I’m not interested?” I asked, though my tone was less certain than I wanted it to be.

“Then you better have another plan,” Harry said bluntly. “Because right now, Evelyn, you’re on the verge of something big. But you’re not there yet. Don’s the kind of connection that gets you there.”

For half a second, I hated the idea of needing a man to help my stardom. The thought of hitching my ambitions to someone else’s coattails, of being seen as an accessory instead of a force, made my stomach twist into a very tight knot. 

But then, just like that, the hesitation was gone. I’d learned long ago that pride didn’t pay the bills, and in Hollywood, pragmatism got you a hell of a lot further than principles.

That’s another thing about me that I think helped my career—I was fine with playing the game. Not just fine, really. I was good at it. If attaching myself to Don Adler was the next move on the board, then I’d do it. And I’d make sure it wasn’t just his name they remembered when we were done.

•••

I never planned on falling in love with Don Adler, but that’s precisely what happened.

Harry made a call to Don’s agent and got me set up on a date, just like that. It felt transactional, and at the time, I was fine with that. I wasn’t looking for romance—I was looking for leverage.

Apparently, Don had seen me in a La Perla campaign a year prior. According to Harry, Don was already interested, his well-documented weakness for beautiful women working in my favor.

Our first meeting was at The Tower Bar. Don was already there when I arrived, sitting in a corner booth with a whiskey in hand. He was exactly as the tabloids had painted him: blue-eyed, broad-shouldered, his hair artfully messy, his smile just a little too practiced.

“Evelyn,” he said, standing as I approached. His eyes swept over me, a flicker of approval in his gaze. “You’re even more stunning in person.”

I gave him a polite smile as I slid into the booth. “And you’re exactly as charming as I expected.”

The conversation was easy, almost disarmingly so. He had this way of drawing you in, of making you feel like you were the only person in the room. We talked about everything and nothing—his latest film, my work on La Vida Rosa, the ridiculousness of paparazzi culture. By the time the waiter cleared our plates, I’d almost forgotten this was a setup.

By the end of the night, I knew two things. One, Don Adler was indeed the career boost I needed. And two, I was in love with him.

•••

Our relationship unfolded quickly, in a blur of late-night dinners, weekend getaways, and carefully coordinated public appearances. The press was relentless, splashing our faces across magazine covers with headlines like Hollywood’s Hottest New Couple! and Don and Evelyn: A Perfect Match? My name was suddenly everywhere, and just like Harry had promised, people were starting to see me as more than just a soap opera star.

But it wasn’t just the career boost that kept me tethered to Don. It was him. I really loved him. With Don, I didn’t feel like I had to be Evelyn Hugo, the persona I’d spent years perfecting. I could just be Evelyn.

He had this uncanny ability to make me feel both grounded and untouchable at the same time. When we were together, he didn’t shy away from my sharp edges. He welcomed them. He let me speak my mind without interruption, encouraged me to push back when I didn’t agree with him. With Don, I never felt like I had to dim myself to fit into someone else’s life. If anything, he made me feel brighter.

We’d spend hours driving up the coast in his convertible, the wind tangling my hair while Don flipped through old jazz stations on the radio. We’d stop at roadside diners and eat greasy burgers in the parking lot. “You’re fun,” he’d say, grinning at me as he leaned across the console to steal a kiss. “I don’t think I’ve ever had this much fun before.”

He let me be loud, unfiltered, messy in ways I’d never allowed myself to be before. I could show up in my oldest sweats, hair piled on top of my head, greasy takeout containers stacked between us on his couch, and he’d still look at me like I was the most captivating woman in the world. Other nights, I’d slip into one of my designer dresses, let him zip me up and admire me in the mirror before we stepped into a room full of industry elites.

Whether I was Evelyn the girl or Evelyn the star, he loved me—or at least, he made me feel like he did. And for someone who had spent years learning how to make herself palatable, digestible, Don’s unconditional acceptance was intoxicating.

And the sex—God, the sex was something else entirely. I’d liked sex before, even enjoyed it in that fleeting, surface-level way that left me satisfied enough. But Don made me crave it. He made me crave him.

He had this way of looking at me, just before touching me, that sent a shiver straight through my body. His hands were strong but unhurried. And when he finally pushed inside me, I felt like I was unraveling and coming together all at once. It wasn’t just physical; it was visceral, a release so complete that I’d cling to him afterward, thanking whoever was beyond the clouds that I’d found my perfect man.

I loved the way he’d pull me against him afterward, his hand tracing lazy circles on my back, his voice low and teasing as he whispered something that made me laugh. I loved how he knew when to push and when to hold, when to let me take the lead and when to completely overwhelm me. Don knew my body better than I did, and he didn’t just make me feel wanted—he made me feel powerful.

Harry and Ari began sprinkling me into larger projects—guest spots on hit TV shows, a small but memorable role in a mid-budget indie film that actually got some attention at Sundance. It wasn’t everything I wanted yet, but it was a start. The press was warming to me, and so were casting directors. My name was no longer just tied to La Vida Rosa. For the first time, I felt like I was climbing out of the box I’d been put in.

Don’s career, on the other hand, had been on the up and up when we first started dating – but he didn’t stay there for long. He was the action star, every studio’s go-to leading man, riding high off back-to-back hits. But one month after he asked me to move into his Beverly Hills mansion, everything changed. His latest movie—a bloated Western remake—flopped so hard it practically created a crater in Hollywood. The critics were merciless, calling his performance wooden and the film a waste of money. Box office numbers confirmed what everyone was already whispering: Don Adler wasn’t infallible.

The reviews were merciless. “A sluggish retread of a classic that no one asked for,” one critic wrote. Another called Don’s performance “hollow” and “uninspired.” The numbers at the box office were even worse. It wasn’t just a flop—it was a public failure, the kind that sticks to you like wet sand in this town.

He started to get mean in ways that crept in quietly, like a slow rot you don’t notice until the foundation starts to crumble. At first, it was little things: a sharp comment here, a dismissive tone there. He’d poke at my insecurities with a smirk that barely disguised his intent. “Do you really need to wear that?” he’d ask when I put on a low-cut top or tight skirt. “It’s a little… obvious, don’t you think?”

And then he started drinking more. Whiskey mostly, though he didn’t discriminate when the mood struck. What started as a nightcap turned into a habit, the glass in his hand as permanent as his shadow. He’d come home from meetings he wouldn’t talk about, his shoulders tense, his eyes distant and glazed, and pour himself a drink before even taking off his shoes. The man who once made me laugh until my sides ached was disappearing, replaced by someone darker, angrier.

But the worst came the night his idiotic friend Robert let my best-kept secret slip. My defunct OnlyFans page—a relic of my pre-Hollywood hustle, back when I was clawing my way out of the Bronx with no roadmap and nothing to lose. I’d shut it down long before La Vida Rosa, long before Don, but apparently, Robert had done his digging. And he couldn’t wait to bring it up over drinks at Seven Grand downtown. 

“Did you know your little starlet used to sell nudes online?” Robert asked, his voice carrying over the hum of conversation.

For a moment, I couldn’t move. I just blinked, the blood rushing to my ears so fast it felt like a roar. God, that moment was terrible. My stomach dropped, a sick, lurching feeling like I’d stepped off a ledge.

And I feel terrible that I felt terrible, if that makes sense. I shouldn’t have. What I’d done wasn’t shameful. I’d done it because I had to, because I needed to get out of the Bronx, away from the chaos of my abusive father and my ghost of a mother. It had been survival, plain and simple. But that didn’t matter in the moment. I knew what Don would think. I knew what he would hate.

“What did you just say?” Don asked.

Robert smirked, leaning back in his chair like he’d just cracked the best joke of the night. “I’m just saying. She had her hustle, right? Before all this.” He gestured vaguely, the ice in his glass clinking as he tipped it toward me. “Evelyn was a modern day entrepreneur.”

Don’s gaze snapped to me, his blue eyes narrowing into slits. “Is that true?” he asked, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. I’d never heard him sound so venomous.

My throat tightened, the words sticking like gravel. “It was a long time ago,” I said, forcing them out. “Before I even thought about acting. It’s not a big deal.”

Don pinched the bridge of his nose, his jaw clenched so tight I swear I could almost hear his teeth grinding. “I think it’s time to go.”

“Don…” I started, my voice catching, but he was already standing, his chair scraping against the floor.

Robert, sensing the tension but clearly oblivious to the depth of it, chuckled nervously, raising his hands in a half-hearted gesture of surrender. “Hey, man, it’s not a big deal. We’ve all got pasts, right? Besides, Evelyn’s—”

“Shut up, Robert,” Don snapped, his voice like a whip. The smirk dropped from Robert’s face instantly, replaced by an awkward, wide-eyed silence.

I stood too, my legs shaky beneath me, and followed Don out of the bar. Don didn’t say a word as he stalked to the car. I trailed behind, my heart pounding, trying to figure out what I could possibly say to fix this—or if it was even worth fixing.

When we got to his house, he slammed the car door behind him and stormed inside. I followed, quiet and quick.

He was pacing in the living room when I walked in, his movements jagged, almost feverish. His shirt was untucked, his tie hanging loose around his neck, and there was a glass in his hand, though it looked untouched. He reminded me of a kettle right before it whistles—heat building, pressure rising, seconds from boiling over.

“Do you have any idea how humiliating that was?” he spat, his voice bouncing off the walls of the oversized house.

“Humiliating?” I repeated, my own anger flaring like a match struck too close to kindling. “I didn’t even do anything!”

“You didn’t do anything?” He turned on his heel to face me. His eyes, always so clear and bright, looked wild, unfocused, like he couldn’t decide whether to be furious or disgusted. “You had a fucking OnlyFans, Evelyn. Selling nudes online to other dudes. Do you even understand what that means? Do you know what people will say when they find out?”

“I did it because I had to,” I snapped back. “I was trying to survive, Don. I didn’t have a trust fund or famous parents to fall back on. I had to make my own way. Or would you rather I’d stayed in the Bronx, stuck in that goddamn shoebox apartment, waiting for someone to save me?”

“Don’t bring me into this,” he growled, stepping closer, his shadow swallowing the space between us. “This isn’t about survival. It’s about you dragging me into your mess. Your trash.”

“My mess?” I repeated, the word sticking in my throat like glass. “You knew who I was. I’ve never lied to you. I’ve never pretended to be anything else.”

He laughed then, a bitter, guttural sound that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “Yeah, well, maybe I should’ve looked harder.”

The slap came faster than I could register. One second, he was standing there, his fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tight with fury. The next, his hand collided with my face, the impact snapping my head to the side. For a moment, everything went still. The room, the air, the world—it all hung in that unbearable silence.

The sting spread across my cheek, sharp and searing, a hot flush that blurred the edges of my vision. I pressed my hand to my face, feeling the heat of his anger etched into my skin. I blinked, and the tears came, unbidden and unwelcome, pooling at the corners of my eyes. But I didn’t let them fall. I wouldn’t give him that.

“Evelyn,” he said, his voice softer now, the tremor in it almost convincing. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t,” I said, cutting him off before he could finish. “Don’t you dare.”

I walked to the kitchen. The room was pristine, as always, every surface gleaming like it belonged in a catalog instead of a home. The hum of the Sub-Zero fridge filled the silence as I opened the freezer, fumbling past the neatly stacked bags of frozen fruit and artisanal ice cubes until I found an ice pack. I pressed it against my cheek.

I had an audition the next day. A big one. There was no room for puffiness. The battered woman look won’t get you the part, Evelyn, I thought bitterly.

Behind me, I heard him shuffle quietly into the kitchen. He was trying to tread lightly now, as if soft steps could erase the sound of his hand meeting my face.

“Ev, honey, I’m so sorry. I swear I –”

“Just go,” I said, not turning around. My voice was flat, drained, as hollow as the ache in my chest.

“Let me—”

“Go!” I said louder, spinning to face him. My words cracked through the room.

He scrambled off. And then it hit me. There I was, standing in my boyfriend’s million-dollar, marble-encrusted kitchen, clutching a goddamn ice pack to my cheek because he’d hit me. Just like my father used to in that suffocating, run-down apartment in the Bronx.

My father, with his stained undershirts and tequila breath, who couldn’t stomach his own failures so he made us carry them for him. My father, who’d turned violence into punctuation, into the period that ended every argument. And now Don—Don, who had once made me believe I could escape it all—had become the same thing.

Can I ever really escape?