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  The way his well calibrated attention once made Sloane feel so very important. Not just like a big girl, but like the biggest and most important girl in the world. For a few fleeting moments, he made her feel essential to the future. Back when his extra attention still felt like a gift instead of the tax that would break her.

  The way Liam Wentz kept trying to get her alone. And what happened once he finally did.

  Today’s scene dragged her back into that moment. Because the nightmare of her worst day not only lived, but still thrived, inside her. Despite the years, despite the therapy. And because Bennet’s performance was dead on.

  But Cassidy had done nothing to sell it.

  Her inexperience was starting to show. Sloane had insisted on a no-name actress, strongly feeling that someone without any track record in Hollywood whatsoever would sell the story best.

  But now she was starting to regret her decision, wondering if she had made a colossal mistake. Cassidy might not have the chops to pull it off. Her work on stage and smaller productions might not be anywhere near enough. Sloane couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that despite all of her available resources, some of the scenes she had already shot would eventually play like marginal, or even worse, forgettable TV.

  Sloane deserved more, and so did the Shellys. She just needed to figure out the source of the problem so she could then make the best possible decision.

  Because this was about more than the performance. Cassidy’s moods were becoming erratic. Her acting could be tweaked, the Shellys would hire world class coaches if that’s what was needed. But this ran deeper than that. Sloane wasn’t sure about anything, and didn’t know where to dig.

  The Shellys kept checking in, wanting to know if Cassidy was delivering what their director needed her to. Sloane kept delaying a definitive answer. Now they were pressing her, needing to know.

  Before it’s too late. Melinda, still in her head.

  Sloane had narrowed the reasons for Cassidy’s crap-acting into a short list of three distinct possibilities, in order of how damaging each would be to the production.

  Maybe this all started when Sloane corrected her accent. She had worked with a coach for three months before shooting and likely had a difficult time accepting that her hard work wasn’t enough. Feedback had been a grind to deliver, because Cassidy was taking everything personally. If that was the case, she needed to understand that they were all in this together. Sloane could tell her about the time she had to do the bridge scene in Remaking Christmas a staggering forty-seven times, spread over two days and a gallon of tears.

  Maybe this was all because Cassidy was a temperamental pre-teen and being a brat was par for the course. That could go two ways. If it was the obvious start of a downward spiral, then Sloane would have no choice but to sever the head before it gobbled through her production. The Shellys would hate to scrap what they had and start over with another actress, but they were heavily invested in the film’s success, and the buzz of a big up and comer attached to the project would surely light them up.

  But maybe Liam Wentz had gotten to Cassidy, and this was another arrow from the quiver of her nightmares thunking into the heart of her dream.

  In any event, it had been three days. Sloane kept falling further and further behind schedule. She wasn’t willing to move on without nailing this scene. Maybe she had learned that from her two days of torture on Christmas. She had been so upset during the shoot, but that scene was the one strangers had commented on most. People she had never met and would never see again, stopping her on the street to gush about how much they cried or laughed or thought hard about that scene.

  Those three and a half minutes on the bridge said everything Remaking Christmas needed to say. The sequence of scenes in Sunset, from Daisy and Oliver just outside his trailer, to the one where she’s sobbing in her mother’s arms, were the movie.

  It needed to be perfect, or it was sundown on Sunset’s potential.

  Her ten minutes must have expired, because the cast and crew were crowding back around her, with Cassidy wearing a scowl.

  She marched up to her director and cranked her accent up to eleven. “Are you going to let me do my job or keep opening your mush to stop me every ten seconds?”

  “If you can go ten seconds without making me feel like we’re filming a Hallmark movie, then yes, Cassidy, I’d be happy to keep my ‘mush’ shut.”

  Sloane caught sight of Cassidy’s parents standing near the exit and put two and two together. Clearly they were egging her on. Not that it proved anything. The girl was their meal ticket — the Cavallis complicity could neatly fit into any of Sloane’s three proposed scenarios.

  Cassidy’s accent somehow grew even thicker. “Not my fault you spent all week cheesed off.”

  “I’m not upset, Cassidy. But there are certain things I need you to be doing, and it’s your job to take my direction. Literally. That’s what we’re paying you for.”

  “I’m getting dosh to act. Not get yelled at.”

  “I haven’t been yelling at you,” Sloane said, picturing herself slapping Cassidy then feeling immediately guilty for the image. “I’ve been directing you. That’s literally my job.”

  “Ronnie Borman made Full of Beans without yelling at me once.” Cassidy crossed her arms like a petulant little brat, failing to mention that Full of Beans was a tone-deaf message movie that was universally panned and came off like unintentional parody.

  “This isn’t Ronnie Borman’s set, and I’m not apologizing for doing my job when you should be apologizing for not doing yours. I suggest—”

  “That’ll be enough.” Cassidy’s dad was suddenly three feet away, with Mom just one step behind him, clutching her purse. “Come on, Cass, we’re going home.”

  “We’re not finished.” Sloane couldn’t have heard them right. “You can’t leave.”

  “Like hell we can’t.” Dad was already turning around, Mom now in the lead, Cassidy brushing past Sloane to trail her parents.

  Dammit. She should not have to do this.

  Sloane looked around, but everyone looked lost, including Miles and Lila.

  After a heavy exhale, she gave chase and caught up to the Cavallis outside as they were approaching their car.

  “Wait! Please.”

  Dad turned first. Then the other two, Mom impatient and Cassidy smirking.

  “What do you want?” Dad asked.

  To replace your brat of a daughter with someone who can act. “To work this out.”

  “Seems like you’re not happy with Cass’s performance. That makes the three of us” — he nodded to his wife and daughter on either side of him — “question whether this project is right for her brand.”

  “And how is that?” Sloane asked, wishing she didn’t feel the need to.

  Dad said, “There’s plenty of rumors that this film’s a sinking ship.”

  Your daughter is both the hole and the anchor. “Not at all. We just need to work on a few things.”

  “Good luck with that.” Dad nodded and turned around.

  “You don’t want to break your contract, Mr. Cavalli.”

  In a blink, Dad was back to facing her.

  He took a step forward. “That a threat, Ms. Alexander?”

  “Not at all.” She shook her head but kept her eyes boring into his. “But this town works on reputation. Cassidy doesn’t want to be known as the kind of performer who doesn’t perform.”

  “Maybe we already have other places to go, in the event of things not working out here.”

  “I’m sure you do, Mr. Cavalli. But some of those places might be dangerous. And being involved with this project in particular should—”

  “And maybe there are two sides to that story too, eh?” Cassidy widened her smirk.

  Sloane imagined slapping her again, but this time the pictures arrived in her mind without any guilt.

  “Look.” Sloane took a bold step forward, closing the narrow gap between them. “We’re already inves
ted with each other. Why don’t the three of you enjoy a long weekend. I’ll use that time to figure out exactly what’s wrong, and exactly how to fix this scene and everything else. No more guesswork. If we’re not all happy after that, then we’ll—”

  “Fine, Ms. Alexander. See you on Monday.”

  Then they all turned and finished their short jaunt to the family sedan.

  Sloane turned around and started walking back to the set, trying not to shake her head in defeat or face the truth that she had probably just given the three of them — and Liam Wentz — exactly what they, meaning he, wanted.

  Everyone was standing around, looking expectant. She mustered her strength to announce the three-day break for Cassidy, a shuffling of their shooting schedule, and the day’s remainder, needed to determine how they could best leverage the final day of what was turning out to be a wasted week.

  Sloane had five minutes of alone time on her little couch before she heard a knock on her trailer door. Unless it was God wanting to prove His existence or grant her some wishes, she wasn’t interested in company from anyone. She was ashamed of her behavior and her performance. She needed to be left alone.

  Curiosity did get her glancing at the window, but even Orson Beck didn’t stand a chance right now.

  Still, he knocked again, less insistent, almost in surrender, then one last time before Orson made an about-face on her steps and walked away.

  Great. She was ruining everything good because she couldn’t deal with her shit.

  Miles was right. So was everyone who doubted her.

  What was she doing? Why did she have to dredge all of this up?

  Perhaps proximity to her pain was the problem. Her first three movies were all straightforward to make, rewarding on set, and critical darlings once finished.

  Maybe she was too close to this story. Maybe Miles had a point, and another director should finish what she started. Maybe her sticking with the project would only let everyone down.

  Sloane closed her eyes and sank down into the couch, thinking. She would spend the rest of today getting tomorrow on track. One more day to prove herself.

  She kept thinking the same thing on repeat. Tomorrow is going to be a great day.

  But Sloane’s roiling gut kept insisting it wouldn’t be.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Sloane

  It was going to be an amazing day.

  Sloane inhaled the crisp morning air and wondered why she didn’t get up early more often as she walked back inside.

  She closed the door behind her, still enjoying the silence, same as she had all morning.

  Yesterday had sent her home in defeat, but this morning Sloane woke up in triumph, ready to conquer a day without Cassidy. Though she didn’t really want to see Orson or anyone else last night, she did allow him to help her, responding yes to his friendly text request asking if he could please take Jolie for the night and bring her to set in the morning, since Connor had been dying to play with her.

  Sloane knew a pity invite when she saw one, but was still willing to take advantage of his offer.

  The morning quiet had centered her. She knew exactly what to shoot, how to use every member of the available cast and crew, and precisely how to best leverage their entire day.

  She couldn’t wait to see the look on Lila’s face. Not that it was Sloane’s job to impress her AD, but she felt proud of her work and hoped Lila was, too.

  Maybe Cassidy really was the problem. Because for the first time, Sloane felt the creative flow behind the camera she had been expecting to feel on her fourth film, especially since the material was coming from a place of personal significance and fiery passion.

  Every project had taught her plenty, but the lessons with Sunset so far were numerous and ultimately elusive. Sloane needed to see the work through to understand how it had changed her.

  Her first film, A Quiet Compass taught Sloane what she would ultimately need to get her fourth film financed by the Shellys. Rookie directors were deadly attachments and risky by definition. Financiers were sometimes willing to roll the dice, but only after a list of substantial concessions. Absolutely fair, it was their money after all, but Sloane’s goal was to find herself from one film to the next in pursuit of steady personal and professional growth. So A Quiet Compass was shot on the cheap, or cheap enough, with a quarter-million dollar budget Sloane could afford from her own dwindling funds. The Shellys taught her that it was always smarter to use other people’s money, but in this instance the risk had been her reward, netting Sloane Alexander a decent amount of buzz for her directorial debut, and just over four-million dollars by the time her first film finished its initial run.

  Her next feature, Blossom, taught her that the wrong background actors could upset the balance of an otherwise wonderfully calibrated film. She could have her shot list memorized and clearly see the emotional arcs required to anchor each and every scene, yet the wrong extra could ruin everything. Blossom was her “coming of age” film, or at least the first of them, and the twenty-one-year-old she cast to play the seventeen-year-old lead was perfect. So was the actor who played her best friend, the entire family cast, and every teacher at school. But three kids shaking their fists and over-emoting in the background of an elaborately staged playground scene had Sloane reshooting the whole thing. For her next film, Sloane gave every character on screen a name and backstory. Kid #1 was no longer enough.

  Her best lesson on Capsized — a tidy little two-person disaster flick, still self-financed, but now with the six-million dollars in profit she’d accumulated from her first two features, and built to prove that Sloane Alexander had an eye for cinema, regardless of genre — was an understanding that she liked to shoot long and that too much footage was something that should be expected. Cutting each of her first two films to under two hours had been hard. With Capsized, coming anywhere close was impossible. The story was small, but there were still so many notes it needed to hit. Sloane ended up with three hours and twenty-minutes that got painstakingly whittled down, until it was only two hours and twenty-one minutes. Critics enjoyed the visuals, but found the runtime a slog. The clear lesson was for Sloane to wrangle more control over her movie’s length, but the more important bit of wisdom suggested the opposite, that maybe she should have let her story sprawl and saved it for TV.

  All three films taught Sloane that she needed to work. That she lived to express herself through story. That for the rest of her life, when one project ended, a new one would need to be born. She almost wanted to get a tattoo after the wrap party to commemorate the film, but the reality of doing so might turn Sloane into the Painted Woman by the end of her career.

  All three films also taught her the lesson she most needed to learn. She didn’t need Liam Wentz — or him back then — to be successful.

  That little bit of the monster’s brainwashing had lasted the longest. There were days when Sloane could forget it, but she spent too much of her childhood with the predator stuck in her head, repeating his refrain that she would never be anything without him. That he could close every door, same as he could open them.

  A choice that was never a choice.

  Each of those first three films had prepared her for the fourth. Until she wrote West Hollywood Sunset, Sloane didn’t know which part of her story to tell, or even how to eventually tell it. Only that she had to. There was the truth, and the truth as it should be delivered. Finding the beating heart between them took her years to figure out.

  There were the things she knew and the things she didn’t. The things she needed to say and the things she never would. The things she deeply felt but had so far failed to articulate.

  This film was supposed to change her life.

  Today it would finally live up to that promise. In another—

  The door exploded open, and Sloane embarrassed herself with a yelp.

  She looked over toward the sound and saw her worst nightmare confirmed — Liam Wentz marching right toward her.


  He stopped a few feet away, looming over Sloane, making her feel like a teeny tiny little girl as he bellowed, “You have some nerve!”

  “Get out,” she ordered, ignoring her aggressively stoked curiosity.

  “You’re done. Ruined. TOTALLY FUCKING FINISHED!” Spittle rained from his mouth. Then Liam Wentz leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I hope you understand what you’ve done.”

  Despite her best intentions, Sloane fell prey to the bait. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Like hell you don’t!” He raised his clenched fist and for a moment she seriously thought that Liam Wentz was going to strike her. “You know exactly what you’re doing.” Then he growled, “You’re doing whatever the mother fucking Shellys tell you to do.” Then he straightened. “Same as you have for the last twenty years.”

  “Jake!” Even if the Kindergarten Cop wasn’t on set yet, calling for him might give the monster pause. “Security!” There were at least two guards around here somewhere. “I need help!”

  Liam Wentz fell a step back, raising his hands in pacification, but his tone remained violent. “I know all about your little memoir and—”

  “You need to leave. NOW!” Her fists were clenched even tighter than her jaw.

  Where the hell was security?

  “—if you don’t pull the plug on that project, I’ll sue you for libel, for defamation, the works. I will ruin you.”

  “That’s not a new threat. It’s how you said good morning. SECURITY!” In another second, Sloane would start screaming her throat raw.

  “You can tell the Shellys that they’ve made their last mistake.”

  The cast and crew had started to arrive, along with both guards. Maybe eight or nine people total, it was hard to tally them all in a glance. But the crowd was pregnant with nerves, waiting to see what would happen.

  And Sloane was in a nightmare, trying to claw her way up from the bottom.

  Everything had been going great just a few minutes ago. But same as he’d been able to do for the last twenty years, Liam Wentz had managed to completely unseat her.