Page 52 of Make The Cut

No. What my father told me was right after all. I shouldn’t have gone into the celebrity life, not because I’d be too tempted by the women throwing themselves at me, but because none of them would ever love me for who I was, the same way my father never loved me.

If my own father couldn’t care for me—how could anyone else?

* * *

After a short lunch at home, I pop back to the set ofMake The Cut, where Rose is in the middle of hair and makeup and has to be shushed by her makeup artist and reprimanded for the tears streaming down her face and the profanity spewing from her mouth.

Clearly, something is going wrong.

“Get off me! I’m done. I’m done with this show,” Rose yells. She waves her arms wildly, gesturing for the hair and makeup artists to leave. Her hair is half-curled and her mascara runs down her cheeks as she gets up from her chair in the dressing room. I can’t tell if she’s furious, sad, or having a breakdown.

Her bare ring finger and the faint tan line on it suggests the obvious reason for her current distress.

“Hey, Rose.” I shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans. She has never been this emotionally unhinged in all the time that I was dating her. Then again, when we were dating, there was never any time for emotions. It was a publicity-fueled relationship.

“Hey?” she repeats. “That’s all you have to say to me?”

“If you’re having a bad day, go home. Don’t take it out on the staff.” I point at the poor girls who are slinking away with their curling irons and makeup brushes, terrified of Rose’s wrath. “They’re probably never going to come back now.”

“Do I look like I care?” she snaps. “My fiancé is cheating on me.”

My heart dissolves into slivers in my chest. “Rose, I’m sorry—“

“Don’t.” She holds up a hand. “Damn it, Naoya, I don’t want any of your pity right now.”

“Rose,” I say again, my tone softer. My irritation with her melts, replaced only by a deep pain that demands not only to be felt but shared. “That sucks. Do you want me to go beat him up for you?”

She sniffs, wiping at her face with a cotton pad. “No. I just wish I’d never asked you to go to that tea room with me. Then we could’ve just stayed broken up. And he wouldn’t do this crap like cheating on me with one of my damnbridesmaids.”

“What can I do for you?” I say, cautiously stepping towards her. “Do you want time off? Listen, we can reschedule the filming. I’m sure people will understand—“

Although, I’m not sure they will. TJ definitely won’t.

“No.” She shakes her head. “I’ll look weak and pathetic, there’s no point.”

I sigh. “Should I call the makeup artist back in?”

“I just… I’ll do it myself.” She sniffles again. “Sorry for dumping all of this on you, Naoya. I just… I thought you might…”

I freeze. She doesn’t know about my father. Very few people know about my father.

“Say nothing about it.” I shrug. “If you need something…”

She nods before taking a step toward me and flinging herself into my arms. I hold her stiffly, unsure of what to do or say, stroking her hair. I did this once before, but there were cameras and lights. Now, in the near-silent darkness of the set, this dressing room is a pocket of calm against the bustle and noise of everything else happening around us, and it feels wrong to hold her like this. Wrong to be vulnerable with her. Wrong to let her be vulnerable with me.

It feels like someone else should be in my arms.

The door to her dressing room creaks open. “Rose? I dropped off the gown at Col—“

It’s Poppy.

Rose doesn’t move from my hold, only looking up and facing Poppy. “That’s fine. You can go home for the day.”

“But I—“

“There’s nothing else for you to do.”

I let go of Rose, feeling like she burned me. “Poppy—“

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