Page 65 of Make The Cut

I quit.

That’s what Rose McCartney’s text said when it disturbed me from my sleep at five-twenty-seven am. She’s quitting the show.

She can’t just up andleave. How is she breaking the contracts we both signed–the sponsorship deals we’ve been given–all for nothing? Why is she doing this? It’s not like she hasn’t been paid well–we both receive the exact same salary for the show–and the publicity hasn’t been lavished upon both of us.

Her decision to leave doesn’t just affect her. It affects the show. Everything I’ve built.

How am I supposed to find someone to replace her in time?

And why didn’t I see this coming?

Her dressing room door swings open, and I grab the handle to keep it from whacking me in the nose.

“Let me pass.” Rose glares at me, looking almost vulnerable and small with her face stripped of makeup and her feet in flip flops instead of her usual stilettos. It’s an unsettling sight that reveals parts of her I never saw, even when we were ostensibly dating. I don’t want to pity Rose–don’t want to feel any empathy for her–not now. Not when she’s about to ruin my career. “Hello? Naoya? Are you going to let me go or not?”

I keep holding the door. “Let’s talk.”

“I already told you I’m quitting.”

“Why?” I gesture for her to go back into her dressing room.

She glares at me, arms full of clothing and a tote bag dangling off her wrist, but eventually complies. Once we’re inside, the door is safely shut and I lean against the dressing table while she sits on her stool in front of the vanity. “Whywhat?”

“Why are you quitting, Rose? What about the agreement you had your lawyer draw up and the contract thatyousigned?” I take a deep breath to keep from getting any angrier. If I show her that I’m mad, I’ll–well, she’ll find something in me. She’ll see some weakness I have and exploit it, prying her manicured fingers into every crack and pushing it apart until I’m laid bare. “What is so bad about working on this show that you want to quit? Now? Right before the final episode is going to air?”

“None of your business, Naoya.” She folds her arms across her chest. “Certainly nothingyou’dunderstand.”

I don’t know if I want to sit in this room and wait for her to spill whatever answer isreallybehind her quitting, since usually, ignoring her causes her to share her secrets out of boredom and the desire for attention. But all I know is, right now, I’m done. Just done withher–her manipulation, her constant need to control our working relationship, her lingering past that wants to ooze into the future I want with Poppy.

So I don’t bother. She’s not the woman I want to know inside out. She’s not even the woman I want to know halfway.

I say, “You signed a contract. I can still sue you into oblivion.”

Her sigh of acquiescence combined with her eye roll tells me she hadn’t thought of that, or at the very least hadn’t thought it was a big deal. “Fine. My contract was for one season, so that’s how long I’ll be staying.”

As Rose gets up, her elbow narrowly missing my side when she yanks the door back open, I watch her go.

And then, as I follow her out a minute later, I see TJ standing there, his head bent over his phone as his thumbs fly over the screen.

My gut tightens. How much of our argument did he hear? Does he know Rose is leaving the show?

Does he know I messed up somehow and that my grip on my career is hanging on by tenterhooks?

When he hears me pass, he glances up from his phone, a friendly smile on his face–but the look in his grey eyes is calculating, like he’s trying to puzzle me out. “What were you and Rose doing in her dressing room?”

I’m tempted to repeat her words back to him,none of your business, but I know better than to let the last strands of my career slip through my fingers. “Just having a friendly chat as coworkers.”

“That’s good. You know, I’d hate for any personal drama to jeopardize the show.” With that, he claps me on the shoulder and walks away, whistling a familiar tune.

The song that I stole from Ryder Black all those years ago.

My stomach churns.

Will my past haunt me forever? Will I never be free of my crimes or rid of what I’ve done to hurt others? Have my sins left gouge marks not merely on others’ lives but on my own soul?

I slide down the wall and sit on the floor, knees to my chest, just as I pick up my phone and click on a familiar contact.

Poppy answers in seconds. “What’s wrong?’

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