Stephen moved across the aisle to sit next to me, so close that he sat on part of my dress. He fingered one of my straps delicately, rubbing it lightly between index finger and thumb. “Beautiful,” he murmured, and his face was so close that his breath warmed my cheek. I gripped the stem of my glass, aware that if I dropped it I would spill champagne everywhere. He took it from my hand and leaned in the opposite direction to tuck the glasses away. It was this short moment, when he shifted away and then back again, when I should have regrouped. When I should have remembered where I was, who I was, and what I was doing.

But the pause was so short, and he was leaning toward me with his tie silkily untucking itself from his suit vest, tickling me along the arm. His left hand came forward, gently touching the side of my face, turning my chin toward him. Our noses brushed, and then his mouth was on mine, warm and full.

His hands, the long fingers I’d imagined on my skin, were all over me now, one brushing hair away from the back of my neck, the other tracing my collarbone with the tips of his slender fingers, down into the low neckline of my dress. I accidentally bit his lip when a thumb flicked across my nipple, and he took it as encouragement to kiss me harder.

My thoughts were thick, gelatinous, wobbly in my mind.

Alex, no longer my friend.

Rose, her bruised spine.

Rose . . .

I broke away from Stephen’s mouth. “Just . . . hold on.” I slid on the slippery seat, trying to put a little space between us.

“What’s wrong?” he said, making up the distance.

“I just need a minute. A lot has happened that I need to process before . . . this . . . can happen.” I rearranged my straps.

The car slowed. A disembodied voice startled me out of the moment. “We’re about to arrive.” Our attention peeled apart from each other. The voice on the intercom continued, “Uh, should I circle around the block?”

Stephen tapped a button on an armrest. “Yes, thanks.” He started straightening his clothes, but his scowl was deepening. I rushed to find words to soothe him; I didn’t want him to walk outside on this big night feeling anything but happy. “You’re ruining my lipstick, I mean.” I delivered it lightheartedly, hoping he’d laugh and the tension would ease.

I dug into my tiny clutch for a compact mirror to show him. “And it’s all over you too.” I thought of all the cameras that would be turned on us, the telltale sign of our kiss magnified in magazines and supermarket tabloids, the evidence of two horny kids who couldn’t wait until after the ceremony to rub their mouths all over each other. And Alex would see, and it would just confirm to him—and to that devil-in-his-ear Joe—that I’d been messing around on him.

He swiped at his mouth. “It’s not that bad.” Into the intercom he said, “We’re ready.” The car slowed again.

“Stephen. These photos will be everywhere. And my face is a mess.”

“Let’s go.” He grabbed my arm.

“I just need a minute.” I fished for a tissue.

“We can’t hold up the line now,” the driver said over the radio.

“Come on,” he said, as someone opened the door to the red carpet. Shouts and screams amplified.

“Wait!” I slipped even farther into the darkness of the interior, hiding from camera view. Stephen was still holding my arm, and even strengthened his grip.

“Let go!” I tried to bring my arm back; suddenly I could see how thin I was in his large hands, all knobs and lines and pale skin, which was blooming white under the pressure of his thumb. “You’re hurting me!”

He let go and surprised me by pulling the car door shut again. “Drive around,” he yelled to the front of the car, and, smooth as butter, we took off again, circling the block. “I’m hurting you? I’m hurting you?” He grabbed my arm again with one hand and brought my face to his with the other. “Sassy, I’m so into you. I want to bring you as my big date to this huge fucking event. And I’m the one who is being hurtful?”

The dam burst. “No,” I mewed.

“Don’t cry!”

I tried to tamp down the tears, but his grip on me was solid and I could feel the fear rise in me like bile.

“Stop!” He shook me like a rag doll. He pinched my chin toward his face and wagged my face back and forth, making me shake my own head. “Just . . . stop crying!”

“You’re scaring me,” I whimpered. A face swam in my mind: the brunette with the mandala tattoo: I’m just looking out for you. I would crawl on the red carpet looking a mess if I could just get away from this maniac. I would tumble onto Hollywood Boulevard at thirty-five miles an hour to escape. Why hadn’t the model said anything about danger? She made it sound like he was a playboy. Where the hell did this monster come from?

I dove at the door and tried to open it, but the handle wouldn’t respond. The door was child-locked. I wondered if the driver had seen things. If other women, the brunette included, had screamed too.

“Hey!” Stephen shouted.

I didn’t realize I was screaming until I felt a sudden throb against my ear, a deep pain that surprised me completely. He had hit me; it was like getting smacked in the face with a basketball. Stunned, I stopped crying immediately, cowering like one of the dogs I’d seen in the shelter kennels.

“Fuck. I didn’t mean to do that.” He smoothed my hair, which was probably no longer a sleek-shaped updo but a rat’s nest after all my thrashing. His kindness brought me to new tears; confused tears, pained tears.

I pulled at the door handle again, kicking the door with a foot.

“Sassy, you can’t go out there looking like this.”

“Leave me the fuck alone,” I screamed.

“Sassy—” He snatched at my arm again, getting a firm hold.

“I’m Cassidy.” I pulled my arm back, but his hand was still on me. There was a loud snap and excruciating pain where his fingers had been.

“Shit, shit,” he said. He pushed the intercom button. “Dave, I’m getting out. Take her to get patched up.”

“You’re going to leave me here?” Tears of pain made him look like a mirage.

“If we both don’t show up, the rumor mill will go wild. The carpet has already seen me. And you said you didn’t want rumors.”

The limo whispered to a stop and I shuffled to the front of the sedan again, out of sight from the door. There was a second rush of noise as Stephen stepped out, ducking through the doorway with one arm already outstretched for a wave. Flashes popped, shading his silhouette on the far corner of the limo wall in a rectangle of yellow and white. Then the door closed once more, and I was left in the quiet to cry in stunned silence. We began moving again.

The driver spoke. “It’ll just be a few minutes.”

I hissed in pain. “That asshole broke my arm and you’re acting like you’re delivering a fucking pizza?”

“Ma’am, I don’t know what you think happened, but if you spread malicious slander about Mr. St. James, I’m afraid I’ll have to inform his lawyers. And I’d like to add, he hires the best in the business. You’d be lucky to find a job at Walmart before you could breathe a second word.”

When we reached the hospital, I walked inside barefoot, not caring where I’d left my impossibly tall, Gail-approved heels. The pain seemed to amplify with every jarring step I took, and there were bruises starting to form on my unnaturally bent forearm, purple fingertips and a long thumb. The nurse taking my X-ray asked if I wanted to discuss what happened. I shook my head. She stressed confidentiality and gave me a card with a number in case I changed my mind; I left it on the exam table after my cast, covering my entire forearm and concealing the marks, was applied.

Who could I call? Who would believe me?

After a long moment, I dialed Emily.

“Hi, Cass! I didn’t see you on the—”

“Emily,” I interrupted, “can you pick me up at the hospital?”

“Sure, but—”

“I’m at Cedars-Sinai.”

“Are you okay?”

“Just get me, please.”

I waited for her in a room with a small flatscreen anchored to the wall, while I chewed my dry lips. JMC’s television show was on, playing a recap of the Oscars in a small, closed-captioned picture. I craned my head for a remote to change the channel, but my eyes were drawn back to the flickering set, as Sterling Royce escorted a beaming Lucy down the red carpet. Her makeup was too soft to age her, so Sterling looked like a teacher bringing a high schooler to her prom.

Then, suddenly, there was Stephen St. James, with a gorgeous, petite, red-haired goddess on one arm. My jaw snapped shut in surprise and I tasted iron.

Anna.

The closed captioning filled the bottom of the screen. “It’s lovely to see Stephen again, after our time on Sing It, America! together,” Anna Williams preened into the microphone. Her skin glowed, and in the bright lights her pupils were highly constricted, letting the green of her eyes shine. Joan Rivers asked about her outfit as the camera pulled back. “I’m in Oscar de la Renta and he’s in Prada. Thank you!” The two sashayed away and the picture cut to another couple.

I wondered how Stephen had found a replacement so fast.

I wondered if Anna would be the next one in the line of fire. I didn’t like her while on Sing It, but no one deserved to be alone in a room with him.