Page 69 of Fool's Gold

Empire is barely hanging on—that much is clear.

She’s ready to bolt, and there’s not a goddamn thing I can say to make her realize things are going to be fine now. The movie is over, and she’ll be untangled from the webs I wrapped around us.

A new project is exactly what she needs to find her footing. My gut clenches. Without me. With Jacob at her side. A glance at the title page has pieces clicking together. I haven’t worked with the production team, but I’ve heard of them, along with rumors of Kessler’s involvement with this project.

A goddamn romantic comedy with Hollywood’s newest “it” couple as the stars.

Fuck me straight to hell.

“If this is the project you want, then I’ll set up the meetings and get the contracts signed for you.” I swallow hard. The expression on her face is breaking what’s left of my heart into small pieces. “I’m happy you’ve found something you love to work on next.”

It’s the final nail in the coffin.

She bites down on her lips to keep the sob inside, but I hear it anyway. I blink, and she’s rushed out the door. The ache in my head gives another twinge to remind me it’s still there, and I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. Squeezing until my bone threatens to break, and still, the agony isn’t enough to distract me from the constant migraine of the last two weeks.

A breakdown is imminent. It’s a familiar face just outside the door with its fist raised to knock, waiting to be let inside. I’m not sure how I’ve managed to hold it off this entire time.

Too old for this.

Too old for any of it, most of all breaking another heart.

I sink down into my chair, the wheels screeching backward with my sudden weight. The title information of the script she handed me blurs together.

If it’s a project she actively wants to do, then there’s no way in hell I’m going to stop her. It was hard enough to get her rallied around this project and what everyone had deemed to be the perfect role for her. This film will be a success because it has to be.

Anything else she does, I don’t give a shit if it’s a star maker or a vehicle straight into a flaming garbage can. If Empire is happy about a film, eager even, then it’s something for me to encourage.

She’s moving on, and I have to let her go.

I’m going to try my damnedest, for her sake.

I groan, swiveling around to face the wall of thrift store paintings someone had the bright idea to bring in to brighten up the space. Like I give a shit. By the time I pry myself from the office, most of the cast has dispersed.

After the cutthroat pace of the last two weeks, I don’t blame them.

We wrapped a few minutes after midnight, which brought us to approximately five minutes past the schedule Celeste and Stanic forced on me. I’m calling it a win. A hard to come by, claws out, scrambling to get out of a hole kind of win.

Only a few of the lighting crew remain around the set along with the security I hired.

“Mr. Ortega. Congratulations.” One of the boom operators tips his head at me.

I incline my head toward him, briefcase clenched in hand, on my way outside.

The air inside is much cooler compared to the oppressive heat of the evening, and sweat immediately breaks out on my lower back and under my arms as soon as I step outside.

Halfway to the car, I stop. Where the hell am I going?

There are still some loose ends to tie up, but they’re going to have to wait for morning when I’m fresh. When there’s a better chance of meds working to eradicate this headache. I’m behind the wheel and speeding by the time I decide where to go, cutting right toward the hills and the big house rather than my place.

I’ve been a real piece of shit lately, choosing to hide out and drink myself into oblivion instead of watching over Empire myself. A coward’s way. And yet, every morning I wake up, I haven’t died of alcohol poisoning.

The night is silent when I cut off the engine, parked in the front of the house with only a single light glowing from the first floor. Empire’s in the living room.

There’s no hint of the black car that brought her home or of the men hired to accompany her. Which is good because if they’d stood out, then they wouldn’t be doing their jobs properly.

My shoulders sag, and my bones grow heavier than iron as I push my way out of the driver’s seat. Life suddenly shifts into one of those nightmare scenes where the distance between you and the destination grows no matter how fast you run. The front door is the end goal. I’m too far away to reach it and too tired to run.

The key slides home in the lock, and another twist has me inside the foyer. There are no more fresh flowers on the table there. Olivia used to insist on them, and after every movie she wrapped, she’d go for the biggest and gaudiest arrangement she could find.

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