Vigilantes was the comic book movie she’d filmed a handful of scenes in the year before. They’d hyped up her role when she’d signed on to the movie, but the premiere was coming up soon, and she still didn’t know if the hype was real or imaginary. She’d had a director make her big promises before, only to cut her completely in postproduction. She really didn’t want that to happen this time.

“I know,” he said. “I made some calls about this a few days ago. They never should have scheduled the premiere for June; the studio didn’t check with the directors on that. Their time line was . . . well, ambitious is the kind way to put it, and I’m rarely kind. They’re scrambling to get it done. I think at this point the trailer means nothing—they just had to have something to put out there. Everything is still up in the air, but the directors love you, so that’s promising. Don’t count yourself out of this one.”

Well, everything about that filming had been chaotic, so it made perfect sense that it was even more so in postproduction.

“Okay,” she said. “I just . . . really want this one to be a win for me.”

She blamed that filming—not totally rationally—for her crisis the year before. That’s when the anxiety had gotten overwhelming. It had better have been worth it.

“No matter what, this will be a win for you,” he said. “Like I always say, even if we can’t control what other people do, we can—”

“Control the narrative.” Anna finished his sentence. “I know, I know. I mean, yes, help me control this narrative, but also, please keep me posted if you find out anything more? And okay, the other reason I called: I read that script last night. For that film Liz Varon is directing. Simon—this is it. This is the one. I want this role. I have to have it.”

He chuckled.

“I knew you would feel this way. I’ll huddle with Maggie”—her agent—“and see what the story is there. Varon’s in the midst of filming another movie, I do know that, so they’re in no rush to do the casting. But she’s got deep pockets with this one, which is sometimes good news and sometimes bad news—as we both know, often that means someone else is making the decisions. But I want to make this happen.”

Usually, when Simon wanted to make something happen, it happened. Anna felt her shoulders relax.

“I do, too,” she said. “This role . . . this is the one to get me back to the Oscars. I can feel it. I was right last time, remember? I have the same feeling now, but with a difference: I’ll win this time. I know it. I want this role. Tell me what I have to do to get it.”

“How could I possibly forget that you were right last time?” he asked. “Especially since you remind me of it constantly. Don’t worry, I’ll work on this ASAP. I have to run, but I’ll keep you posted on all of this. And I’ll make that call about the ad campaign right now. Ben Stephens, right?”

“Right. Thanks, Simon.”

Anna ran her fingers over the edge of Ben’s business card and smiled.

* * *

—

The woman Ben met for drinks that night—Lauren? Heather?—was very nice, perfectly attractive, and seemed interesting, but he couldn’t concentrate on her. He kept thinking about Anna at the meeting that day—the interested look on her face while he was talking, that quick bark of laughter she let out at his best joke, and the sly grin she shot him after she cut off the head of his company and turned back to him. That interested look on her face . . . was it about him? Or about the idea for the ad campaign? Or did she just have resting interested face, and she hadn’t been thinking about him at all?

It was probably that last one; she was Anna Gardiner, after all.

“What? Oh yeah, another beer sounds great, thanks,” he said to the bartender. “Do you want another drink?” he asked the woman sitting next to him. Rachel. That was her name.

She shook her head and stood up.

“No offense, but you don’t seem that interested in me. Have a good night, Ben.”

Oh God, he was an asshole.

“Wait, Rachel.”

She pulled her purse onto her shoulder and looked at him.

“What?”

“I want to apologize for being bad company tonight. It’s not you—a really . . . weird thing happened at work today, and I can’t stop thinking about it. I’m sorry for being a jerk.”

She looked at him for a while and finally gave him a slight smile.

“Okay. Thanks for apologizing. Good night.”

She patted him on the shoulder and left, just as the bartender put his beer in front of him. He didn’t even really want it, but he took a sip as he thought about the day.

Everything about that day had been strange. The pitch had gone well, he thought, at least it had before the rest of the team had walked in. He grinned again at the expression on Roger’s face when Anna had referred to them as “Ben’s team.” But after that, he’d just tried to keep going and forget about the rest of the team, which had been almost impossible with all of Roger’s interjections, so he had no real handle on how everyone else in the room had reacted. Other than Anna.

He paid for the drinks and left the rest of his beer as he got up to walk home. It was a chilly April night in San Francisco, but he’d raced out of his house so quickly that morning that he’d forgotten his jacket. Why did he always do that? He’d lived here long enough to know what would happen.

He wondered where Anna was now. Had she flown back to L.A. right away after all of the pitches were done? Probably. She was probably out on some elaborate date with her famous boyfriend. Granted, his Google searches had said she currently didn’t have a boyfriend, but someone like her must, right?

His phone rang, right when he walked into his apartment. His boss again. Why was she calling him this late at night?

“Hi, Lisa,” he said cautiously when he answered the phone.

“Ben!” She sounded excited. That was a good sign. “I was going to wait to tell you this tomorrow at work, but Roger wants to meet first thing in the morning, so I thought you should be prepared for that.”

It was nice of her to make sure he’d be there in time for Roger’s meeting the next day, but she could have just texted him.

“Okay, what time? I’ll be there,” he said.

Had he really been late that often? Okay, yes, but like, ten minutes late, not “Lisa needs to call him the night before so he’ll get to work on time” late.

“At nine, but I wasn’t just calling for the meeting! Ben, we got it. Or rather, I should say, YOU got it.”