I have to.

I sit up straight and languidly cross one leg over the other, then I quote Princess Amara in her familiar Noxian lilt: “The horizon’s wide and I have a kingdom to rule.”

Minerva cracks a smile.

THE STREETS BELOW ME THRUM WITH a strange Thursday night madness. It feels like the hours before a big concert, tension in the air so alive it’s almost electrifying. Except a concert lasts a few hours and I’m stuck at this con for four days.

Four whole days.

I don’t understand the allure of any of it. The crowds, the lines, the waiting. And I definitely don’t understand dressing up like it’s Halloween—cosplaying, as Dare often corrects me. Ethan’s in the bathroom changing out of his mock-cosplay; he’s shirtless, and sure he’s pretty cut, but my eyes don’t really linger. He’d be a catch if someone burns all of his nerd T-shirts and puts him in some jeans that actually show he has a butt.

As I sink onto the sofa my phone rings, startling me out of my thoughts. I quickly fish it out of my cross-body bag and check the caller ID.

It’s my agent. My heart leaps into my throat. Diana doesn’t call to ask about the weather, she calls when something has gone either terribly wrong or terribly right. She couldn’t have heard about the panel, could she? No one even realized it wasn’t me, did they?

Jess, breathe.

I answer the phone apprehensively. “Hello?”

A honeyed voice drifts through the speaker like a soothing balm, calm and collected like always. “Hi Jess, how’s your convention going?”

“Ah…good?”

“Good. I heard about the interview.”

Oh. In the stress of what happened at the panel, I’d forgotten about the interview. And Natalia Ford. “I—I’m sorry. It’s just that I—”

“Don’t worry, it’s fine. Natalia’s agent and I go way back. She explained to Natalia that you’ve had a difficult few weeks. Natalia is fine with it, but we have to make sure that when the interview releases, we have a statement prepared.”

I close my eyes and sigh. “I’m so sorry, Diana.”

“I know you’ve been stressed, and this is what I’m here for.”

I nod even though she can’t see me and anxiously worm a fingernail into my thumb cuticle. “I hate to ask but—have you heard anything about the indie film that I auditioned for?”

She gives a long sigh. “I was hoping to tell you after the convention, but I’m sorry. The shooting schedules for the Starfield sequel and The Red Grove compete too closely for the clause in your Starfield contract. You won’t be able to do both.”

Hearing that feels like a punch in the gut. “But I’m not in the sequel! As far as I’ve heard, the script’s not finalized yet—and even if it is, I can’t be in a lot of it, right? I’ll be in a—a flashback or a—a—something. I can do both. It’ll be easy—”

“Jessica.”

My rebuttal freezes on my tongue. I sink into a cold, dread-filled silence. After a moment I ask, my voice tiny, “That’s not the only reason, is it?”

Diana is quiet.

“It’s because of Starfield, isn’t it? Because it’s doing so well—”

She tries to interrupt, “You have duties to the sequel.”

“It is because of Starfield, then. Because it’s doing too well, or because I’m no longer an indie darling, or because—”

“The director thought you were no longer a good fit for the role,” Diana finally admits, and it feels like an arrow through my chest, puncturing my heart, and sliding out the other side, so painful I can barely breathe.

I feel my bottom lip tremble. The Red Grove was supposed to be my break back into real films, a lifeline to saving my artistic integrity. I’ve read the script. It’s decent. What’s more is that I know it’d be a lot better fit for me than playing some dead flashback princess in a subpar sequel.

“I know this feels like a huge setback, but I promise you’ll have other roles. Everyone adores you in Starfield. Conan O’Brien loved you when you went on his show! Jimmy Fallon! We’re even in talks to host Saturday Night Live. Amon thinks you were a great Princess Amara, Jessica.”

Well, tell that to the comments piling up on my Instagram and my Twitter feed, I think bitterly.

I only signed that contract because I was told it would be a one-off. A nice popcorn flick to populate my repertoire, to show off my action as well as my acting chops. Diana wasn’t wrong, but neither of us thought they would hold the sequel script this long without telling me my fate.

We never expected Starfield to be much of anything. And now it’s my entire world. One that I can’t seem to escape from, no matter how hard I try.

I’m about to spill everything—about the social media comments, the threats—when there’s a beep on her phone. She says quickly, “Listen, I have to go, but please don’t let any of this worry you. Try to have some fun! It’s ExcelsiCon! Talk to you soon!”

The line goes dead with a click and I’m left listening to silence.

You didn’t get the part, the self-deprecating voice inside me whispers as I drop the phone onto the bed. You didn’t get it because you’re Amara, and you’ll be Amara for the rest of your life.

Ethan’s been leaning against the doorway to the bathroom, adjusting and readjusting his smartwatch. He’s washed his face and put on a plain white T-shirt, tucked into his slacks. He doesn’t need to say anything for me to know that he heard—and understood—the whole thing.

Tears brim in my eyes, but I bite the side of my cheek to hold myself together. Ethan is my best friend, but Jessica Stone only cries when it’s scripted. Yet the longer I sit there and the longer he messes with his stupid watch, the harder it is for me to stop my lips from quivering.

“I think we need coffee,” he says, even though it’s almost 6:30 p.m. He grabs his wallet from the coffee table in the living room—yes, our hotel suite has a living room—and heads out. “I’ll be back in a minute. Chai?”

I nod.

It’s only when he closes the door that I take out my phone, log onto my socials, and read the comments. All the bad ones, because those seem to be the only ones that get through. They stick to me like glue, clinging to my skin—

what a joke

she’s the worst amara!! So glad she died

I can tell her where she can put those pretty lips

fixed her chest small titties lol [censored photo]

hope she chokes and dies on all the money she got

sell out

#notourprincess

That [censored] needs a cheeseburger

Jess’s so fat must be the stress getting to her

Go ruin some other franchise, faker!

They are endless. And I am so tired of them already. I begin my daily routine of reporting and blocking, reporting and blocking, but my thumb stalls on the screen. What’s the use? They’ll just come back tomorrow, and bring their friends, and I will still be one girl standing in the mouth of the Black Nebula as it opens wide and they wait for me to self-destruct.

I won’t give them that pleasure.

But I don’t know what else to do. The contract might be in the bottom of the trash, but I’ll still have to sign it. I’ll still be here.

I drop my phone and grab a pillow, pressing it against my face, and cry.

“JESSICA!”

I look up at the barista, who slides a cup across the counter. My heart skips a beat until I notice Brienne of Tarth pushing through the line to get her drink. I exhale and turn my attention back to my phone, where I’m sending another furious tweet to a Twitter troll who can’t seem to get his head out of his nostalgia hole. Jessica Stone didn’t ruin Princess Amara’s character, I want to type, but I know that if I reply to every one of these garbage cans, I’ll find myself in troll hell.

The barista approaches the counter with four drinks in a tray and squints at the name. “IHM-OH-GEN-NE?”

“Well that’s one way to say it,” I murmur as I elbow my way to get my order. Two hazelnut lattes, an iced caramel macchiato, and whatever the hell Milo ordered. My phone must have dinged twenty times—can’t he just be patient?

I shift the bag of vegan tacos to the hand that’s holding my phone and grab the tray with the other.

One-handed texting, here we go.

Oh my God, he’s not patient at all.

MILO (6:57 PM)

—Got the grub?

—Hey, hey you.

MILO (7:00 PM)

—HAVE YOU BEEN EATEN BY A WOOKIEE?

MILO (7:01 PM)

—DO I HAVE TO GO SOLO NOW?

MILO (7:01 PM)

—COME BACK TO THE HOTEL TO LEIA YOUR HEAD DOWN.

—PS - I got some MEGA SUPER ULTRA WTF STARFIELD news to SHOW YOU

MILO (7:07 PM)

—No like really where are you do I have to release the hounds.

Release the hounds is code for texting our mothers. Ugh, he’s more dramatic than I am. Tray in one hand, vegan taco bag looped around the other, I reply—

IMOGEN (7:08 PM)

—OMG CHILL OUT leaving now

—Also Wookiees don’t eat humans, they’d be too chewie.

MILO (7:08 PM)

—this is bran pls bring food faster

—milo is about to go full super saiyan he’s so hangry