But that small sting had faded quickly, entirely subsumed by sheer terror at what might happen next. Because Alex would not handle the insult well, and if she looked upset at all, he would go ballistic. So she’d needed to get entirely calm, and then she’d intended to find him before he had the chance to speak to anyone other than her or Marcus.
But he hadn’t been in his suite, and he hadn’t responded to her frantic texts, and by the time she’d worked her way through the crowds outside the hall, she’d run out of time.
Bowing her head in defeat, she took her seat and sent a plea winging to the heavens. Please let him not have seen that email. Please.
After the moderator’s introduction, Alex didn’t simply walk onstage. He prowled, bright streaks of color high on his cheekbones, face split wide with a rage-filled smile, and oh, yes, he’d seen the email.
But as he answered the moderator’s questions, he remained polite and jovial, and if his voice had sharper edges than normal, she and Marcus—because surely Marcus was here somewhere?—were probably the only ones who noticed it.
After a few minutes, she exhaled slowly and began to relax.
Despite his ridiculously wide protective streak and volatile temper, he was a professional. He’d survived in a tough industry for almost two decades, and despite a couple of bobbles and challenges along the way, he’d managed to construct a very successful career.
He’d do the right thing, much as it might pain and enrage him. She had to believe that.
Then: disaster.
That poor, scared young woman in the third row asked about the last season of the show, and Alex’s expression. She’d seen that same expression only yesterday. The beam of a berserker ready to slash and burn, and laugh as he did it.
He hadn’t been restraining himself. Not at all.
He’d been lying in wait.
As soon as that expression registered in her brain, she scrambled to her feet, and from the side of the stage, thumping footsteps heralded Marcus’s attempt at intervention, but Alex was already speaking. Already offering his knife-edged grin to the cameras filming his every word.
“As you know, cast members aren’t allowed to say much about episodes that haven’t aired yet.” He wasn’t pacing anymore. He was entirely still, enunciating clearly and distinctly so his message couldn’t be mistaken. “However, if you’re interested in my thoughts about our final season, you may want to consult my fanfiction. I write under the name CupidUnleashed. All one word, capital C, capital U.”
Oh, no. No.
The stories Alex had written, the comments he’d made … Ron wouldn’t forgive them, and he wouldn’t forget. He’d do his best to drive Alex from the industry in retaliation for how the actor had so scathingly criticized Gates’s scripts and showrunners.
She knew her cousin, even if her cousin knew next to nothing about her.
She wrapped her arms around her middle in a futile attempt at self-comfort, even as a hush fell over the enormous, packed hall. Her knees watery, she dropped back into her seat and curled in on herself, hiding the tears that glazed her vision.
Alex had incinerated his career. Because of her.
Two decades of such hard, hard labor and dedication; all those endless days he’d had to show up on set and harness his towering energy in service to work he loved, even if he didn’t always love his scripts; the reputation he’d painstakingly built … he’d tossed all of it away.
For her.
She didn’t think she’d ever felt so small before. So racked by shame. To have been the means by which Alex got hurt was unbearable.
He was done.
And maybe it shouldn’t matter, compared to the flaming shreds of Alex’s reputation, but they were done too, she and Alex and whatever they’d had together. Because there was no way Ron wasn’t firing her. Within minutes, most likely.
Alex was still speaking, still setting his professional reputation ablaze, even as she covered her face with both hands, bowed her head, and tried not to let her tears fall.
“Those stories will also give you some insight into my feelings about the show in general,” he informed the audience, all razor-edged good cheer. “Also, fair warning: Cupid gets pegged in my fics. Delightedly and often. It’s not great literature, but it’s still better than some of this season’s—”
He didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t need to.
Everyone knew what word he’d playfully omitted: scripts.
“Well, never mind about that,” he said, and she could hear the smirk in his voice.