Page 73 of Make The Cut

“And if you could do that for her, Naoya, why couldn’t you do that forme?” Her blue eyes gaze intently into mine, anger and agony mingled in them.

“I’m sorry, Rose,” I say, because I had no idea—because I’d never thought she could care for me any more than either of us cared about our reputations. “I never loved you.”

I cringe at the slap she delivers to my cheek.

TJ drags Rose off me, holding her by the waist as she waves a manicured hand like she wants to claw my eyeballs out. She’s yelling profanities I’ve only heard while walking past construction sites.

“I guess I deserved that,” I say, blinking past the stinging pain on one side of my face. “I really am sorry, Rose.”

She’s dishevelled for the first time since I’ve met her, her hair coming undone from her high ponytail. “I thought I loved you. But I’m not disappointed, Naoya. Just mad.”

“I’m getting my lawyer to sue both of you.” I snort and make to leave before she actually does gouge my eyes out. “By the way, TJ. You’re fired from producing the show. I don’t want your money.”

“You won’t succeed without me,” he says, but it sounds like a pointless threat.

I shrug. “I’ve succeeded without you for longer than I’ve known you. Even if I never film another season of this show, I’ve done something I’m proud of.”

Chapter Thirty-Five: Poppy Black

Ever since I turned down Rose’s offer to work for her fashion line, I haven’t spoken to her aside from the times I see her on set. She’s been professional enough at work despite awkwardly firing me. That leaves me with a good chunk of leisure time between me leaving Naoya’s house and going on our date tonight. I’ve gotten so used to being incessantly busy that I no longer know what to do with my downtime, so I end up scrolling through the comments on our latest YouTube video.

One of them is from a jealous Naoya Sugawa fangirl who is (in all caps) wondering whether he’s dating anyone or if he’s single and also calling for the violent death of anyone who lays a finger on him. Wow. EvenIhaven’t reached that level of homicidal jealousy. And I’m his actual girlfriend.

Another one is from a “stan” who says they would let him step on their neck. That’s a little dark, but I guess it’s none of my business what people are into these days, as long as they know he’ll never actually get close enough to them to step on their necks.

Finally, I put away my phone and start reading the emails that Colette has sent me about the fashion line. She’s sent over some logo designs that she’s suggested, but it’s hard to have a logo without a title. I’ve suggested calling it Colette’s, since I’m done with having any public recognition for a long time and don’t want to drag her down with my bad reputation. However, she insists that I should also get some recognition in the naming of the fashion line, so we’ve been at a standstill.

I quickly type out an email suggesting a French name, to go with her background. She agrees, and we settle onHabillement, another word for formal attire.

Finally, after a few emails, a brief phone call, and an agonizingly long wait in traffic, I make it back to Naoya’s, since he’s suggested that we just watch the latest episode of whatever period drama I’m obsessed with and eat sushi. I agreed, not in the mood to go out and wonder if we’ll be caught by the paparazzi.

I know that one day, we will be exposed to the public and I’ll have to face the consequences of being in a relationship with a celebrity. But not today.

After Naoya texts me that Ryder has already left, I get out of the car and walk up his front steps. Gustav easily steps aside to let me pass without even frisking me, which I appreciate. Instead of eating on the couch, Naoya has laid a red tablecloth on the dining table and plated the sushi takeout on fancy charger plates that I usually see on Christmas table-scapes. Two candles have been lit, and two places are set across from one another at the table.

“Wow, what’s the special occasion?” I ask, dropping my purse on the coat rack beside the door, though it’s a few inches above my head, so I struggle slightly. Naoya carefully sets down the lighter and comes over to help me. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me, Red. I just came here to rob you.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s a bag, not a Baguette.”

He frowns. “Yeah, or a croissant.”

I sigh, supposing that I should have expected he wouldn’t get mySex and the Cityreference. “No special occasion, huh?”

“Celebrating the day of my father’s engagement announcement,” he says, pulling out a chair for me.

I feel woefully under-dressed, which is a rare occurrence for me these days, and smooth my hands over my ripped jeans.

“You’re kidding.” He didn’t even tell me his father was getting remarried. All he told me is that he was a cheater. “To who?”

“The woman he cheated on my mom with all those years ago.” He sighs, slumping into the chair across from me. “He keeps trying to get me to go to the wedding.”

“Do you want to go?” I prompt, pretty sure the answer will beheck, no.

“I’d rather get hit by a truck,” he says. “And then struck by lightning. Then thrown into a tank of piranhas—“

“Okay, I get it.” I hold up my hands in surrender. “You hate him. Then why celebrate that?”

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