I sit in Bistro 51 with a plate of coffee and coconut crusted, dry-aged steak in front of me and the most delicious lobster macaroni and cheese steaming in the center of the table. Kennedy and I are seated in the V.I.P. section as a courtesy, but even that doesn’t always stop fans from coming up to our table and asking for autographs or pictures. As I take a bite of the steak and let the flavors unfold on my tongue one at a time, I wonder how I ever got this far.

“Do you ever feel like you’re faking it?” I ask Kennedy, my best friend and co-star on Stalked.

She looks up at me through thick eyelashes and purses her pouty lips. “All the time,” she says in a matter-of-fact way. “I can’t remember the last real orgasm I’ve had that didn’t come from my vibrator.”

I can’t help grinning a little. “No. I mean faking this.” I twirl my finger around, encompassing everything from the severe oil paintings in thick, expensive frames hanging on the dark wood-paneled walls to the servers who glide from table to table wielding thousand dollar bottles of wine. “It feels like just a few months ago we were eating ramen in our dorm, trying so hard to convince ourselves we weren’t making the biggest mistake of our lives moving out here. And now…”

“Now we’re living the lives of movie stars?” she asks. “It’s because we are movie stars. Basically, since TV shows are the new movies. At least that’s what Gary says. You shouldn’t feel like you’re faking anything, Makayla. You’ve earned this. Chug that fucking wine like it owes you money! Eat the steak with your bare hands if you want because you know no one will say a word to the great Makayla Pierson. Everybody and their dog watches you on TV and they adore you. Seriously.”

I twist my lips into something resembling a smile. “Maybe it’s just that when I used to daydream about this--all the glamor and glitz--I thought it’d satisfy me. Like it’d fill up this hole in my chest that has been there ever since he left. But it feels empty sometimes.”

“Oh my Goddd, please tell me we’re not going down Jesse Slade road again? You’re not due for a Slade detour for at least another few months. Seriously, I love you, but if you don’t get over him soon, I’m going to put a high heel through my eyeball and put myself out of this misery.”

“Okay, okay,” I laugh. “I get it. I’ll keep my sorrows to myself. I’m sorry I thought I could talk to my best friend in the world about what’s really on my mind.”

Kennedy sighs. “Girl, you know I’ll listen if you really need to vent. It’s just that I hate seeing you let your life pass you by while you pine after some guy who has been gone for ten years. He was just a high school boyfriend. You can have fond memories if you want, but it’s not healthy to let that failed relationship rule your life. Seriously.”

I nod. “I know. You’re right, as usual.”

“Sorry,” says Kennedy, holding up her hand. “Can you say that one more time so I can record it?”

“Your head is big enough without my help.”

She makes a show of looking offended, but quickly forgets, downing another gulp of her wine. “So,” Kennedy starts, “did you hear Camillo is getting pressured by the police now? They’re saying one more murder and they will find a way to press charges. As director of the show, they’re saying it’s his responsibility to put a stop to all this.”

I swirl my wine and sip it, not tasting anything except the bittersweet aftertaste. “How is it Camillo’s fault? Some psychos are murdering people and modeling the crimes after the show, sure, but TV shows don’t make murderers. What would be the charge? I mean, it’s not like the news stations got sued when their coverage of Columbine inspired more school shootings.”

“Doesn’t all of this scare you even a little bit?” asks Kennedy.

“I’d be crazy if it didn’t scare me,” I say. “I just don’t think anyone can really blame Camillo for a bunch of copycats trying to murder people and modeling it after the show. Besides, stalkers existed a long time before our show, and a lot of them ended up being violent in the end.” As if on cue, I notice a man at the far end of the restaurant watching me suspiciously over his steak. He looks down when he notices me, but I catch him looking up again as soon as I look away. He just recognizes you from the show. Get over yourself, Makayla.

Kennedy leans forward, lowering her voice. “Aren’t you worried some crazy fan of the show is going to pretend to be Jack Carpenter, climb through your window, and whisper how big a fan he is while he stabs you sixty times?”

I sputter, nearly spitting out a mouthful of my wine when I see the way she’s grinning at me like an idiot. I know she’s kidding, but once my laughter fades I can’t get the image of someone climbing through my window while I sleep out of my mind. I try not to show how much her words disturb me, and I try not to look at the man with the steak. “That’s just made up stuff from the show, Kennedy. It’s not real.”

She folds her arms, still grinning. “Yeah, well, Susan Nelson would probably disagree with you there. You know, if you could talk to dead people, that is.” She grabs her glass and swills down a few hundred dollars worth of wine in three long gulps.

I screw up my lips in a way I know doesn’t have “screen appeal” as Camillo would say. “You sound like Hubert.” I say, spitting his name out of my mouth like it’s something foul.

“Ouch,” she says. “I know I’ve annoyed you when you compare me to the dreaded stepfather.”

I laugh. “No. I just don’t want to let all of it get inside my head. You know? Pretty soon I’d be seeing stalkers everywhere I look. I’d be a trainwreck--more than I already am, at least.” My eyes unconsciously dart to the guy who’s still staring.

Kennedy follows my line of sight and winces, shaking her head. “Creeper.”

The waiter drops off our bill and we both lay down our cards without even glancing inside the booklets to see the cost.

She smiles kindly at the waiter when he takes our cards up a few seconds later.

“Speaking of he-who-must-not-be-named,” I say. “I need to get out of here. I’m supposed to meet Hubert and Linda for dinner. Or was it Maria? I honestly can’t remember anymore.” Linda-Maria is just the latest in a long list of gold-diggers my stepfather has courted since mom died. “Want to run through our lines tomorrow morning?”

She pffts dismissively. “I’ll figure them out on the fly. Organic acting. That’s a thing, right?”

I laugh, “If you say so.”

Kennedy grabs her Chanel bag and shoulders it, picking up her coat and getting ready to leave.

“Hey,” I say quickly. “Be careful, okay?”

She smiles, leaning in and squeezing my cheek. “I knew you’d come around, you little worry-wart.”

I slap her hands away. “Get off me you creep!” I laugh.

“Exactly. That’s what you say when Jack Carpenter sneaks up on you in a dark alley and pulls out The Mangler.”

“Oh God. Would you stop already!”

Kennedy quirks an eyebrow at me, turning to leave. “See you tomorrow!”

Once she leaves I gather my own things and stand to leave. I feel a tingle in my spine when I notice the man that was staring stands from his seat at the same time I do. He was probably just waiting to get an autograph and now that I’m done with my meal, he’s going ask me. That’s all. Stop freaking yourself out. I take my eyes off him to rummage through my purse for the Sharpie I carry with me for times like this. I look up, expecting to see him approaching but…

He’s gone.

I scan the restaurant, hating how hard my heart is pounding. Hating how much Kennedy’s words are repeating in my head. I slowly put the Sharpie back in my bag and step outside. It’s the middle of the afternoon. Nothing is going to happen, I tell myself. I move along the crowded street, passing boutiques, trendy little restaurants, and coffee shops. After a few minutes, I’ve almost completely pushed the man from my mind. It was just a fan who noticed me and happened to leave the restaurant at the same time. It’s not that strange. He probably just lost the courage to approach me, that’s all.

I enter the lobby of my apartment building. It’s not the fanciest place in the city, but the rent is reasonable, at least as far as housing downtown goes. I’ve accepted the life of luxury in so many ways, but I tried living in an expensive apartment when the money first started coming in and it never quite felt like home. So I wound up here. It’s nothing special, but it’s safe, and right now that brings me more comfort than any polished marble or expensive views of the city ever could. I press the button for the elevator and wait, hoping the two young college girls who rent an apartment down the hall from me don’t show up and start fangirling all over me again. Having my neighbors accosting me always makes me uncomfortable, more so than when I’m in public. It’s strange when people I’ve never met come up to me like they know me, except the me they know is the character I play on TV. As usual, the elevator doesn’t seem to be working--one of the downsides of not living in luxury--so I open the door to the stairwell.

I’m halfway up the stairs when I hear the door close behind me. A few seconds later, it opens again. I reach the second floor landing and when I try the door, it’s locked.

“Are you kidding me?” I groan, turning to head back down the stairs.

I freeze in place when I see a man wearing a black jacket and golden goat mask standing directly behind me at the top of the stairs, cutting off my only escape. My throat is instantly dry, and I doubt any sound would even come out if I did scream. My heart hammers in my chest. “W-what do you want?” I stammer. My voice comes out as a strained whisper, as if any sound too loud or sudden might make him attack.

He laughs, and the sound is disturbing, like something from a nightmare. It’s deep, jarring, and inhuman. “I want you to know you’re marked.”

“I have Mace in my purse, asshole. Don’t come any closer,” I threaten. I can’t seem to catch my breath. Everything is spinning, weightless, moving slow and fast at the same time. I put a hand on the door handle behind me, steadying myself.

He raises a gloved hand and drags his index finger across his throat. He points at me and then turns to walk down the stairs.

Just like that. It’s over. My brain is playing catch-up, struggling to process what just happened. The reality of it closes in on me piece by piece. That was the stalker. All the stuff in the media, the rumors, the jokes. It’s real.

Someone is following me, and they want me to know it.

I swallow hard, fighting the urge to sink down and cry. A few moments later, I hear the door below close. I slowly move to the corner of the stairwell, sitting in the corner and hugging my knees to my chest. I could call the police, and maybe I will later, but I can’t even begin to describe the guy. He’ll step on the street outside and disappear. There’s no point.

Instead, I pull my phone free with a shaking hand and call my agent.

His voice booms through the receiver a few seconds later. “Makayla, honey. I was just about to—

“Frank, I want you to hire a bodyguard for me. Get me the best money can buy.” I’ve heard some of the other actresses and actors from the show talk about hiring security ever since this whole thing began. I swore I wouldn’t. But now?

“Is this about the stalking thing?”

“Can you do it?” I ask.

“Sure, yeah. I know a few people. Just let me make some calls.”

I hang up the phone and cover my face. My eyes are only closed for a second before I snap them open again, worried another masked person could be peering around the corner at me.

Jesse. I wish you were here.

The thought rises to the surface of my mind like an unexpected belch. Surprising, unwanted, and embarrassing. Jesse Slade. My old high school sweetheart. The guy who I trusted with my heart. The guy who ripped it in two without a second thought.

Yeah, I wish you were here Jesse, so I could punch you in your obnoxiously gorgeous face. I don’t care if I’ve never felt as safe as I did in his arms. I hate him. He’s a bastard, and I hope I never see him again. Except that’s only half-true. I may wish that I could hate him with my whole heart, but I’ve held onto the memory of him for so long that I’d be a fool to think the only feeling I have toward him is hatred. The line between love and hate really is as thin as they say. If I saw him right now, I can’t say if I would punch him or throw myself into his strong arms--maybe both.