For One Night Only

1

Valerie


When you become famous, everyone claims you can control your own image-but it's the media that decides if you're a darling or a diva. I've been stuck in the diva category since I was seventeen.

Every day there are headlines like, "We Liked Valerie Quinn Better When She Was Making Music," and there's nothing I can do to change the narrative. It's not even accurate, but I guess "We Liked Valerie Quinn Better When She Was in a Band and Not a Musical TV Show" doesn't have the same vicious ring to it.

Poor word choice is the least of my problems today, because there are photos everywhere of me all over my castmate Roxanne Leigh. With my aching head in one hand and my phone in the other, I sit at my cold marble kitchen counter, scrolling through one clickbait article after another with growing horror.

Last night is such a blur that the grainy images bring it back in fragments.

The lights were low and I was with someone beautiful, and I hadn't been out since Theo dumped me, so I let myself forget about the consequences. There's a pic where we're too-close-for-friends in a booth at a club I don't remember, another of us on a crowded dance floor with my hands gripping Roxanne's waist, and one of me licking salt off her hand to do a shot. The photographer even managed to capture the horny spark in my eyes in that last one.

God, how embarrassing. At least I looked hot while breaking my one-drink rule. (The rule in question was my idea four years ago, after I threw up on John Mayer in front of the paparazzi at that Grammys after-party. Not my finest moment. In my defense, it's hard to stay sober-ish when so much of this industry involves parties full of booze.)

Still, the only truly incriminating photos are outside Roxanne's building, the two of us sharing a heated kiss and going inside together. And yeah, I know what it looks like, but we didn't hook up. I was so drunk that I crashed on her couch.

This morning, I woke up in a cold sweat, threw up in her toilet, and awkwardly asked to borrow some clothes to make it back to my apartment. I'll be lucky if she texts me again.

The photos imply a lot more happened. But the media's job is to tell a story, and it's rarely the whole truth. I accepted long ago that these invasive assumptions about my personal life are the cost of my moderate fame-I just can't figure out why the internet is so angry today. I slam my phone face down on the counter, forcing myself to look away before the real self-loathing kicks in.

Sure, Roxanne and I are both actresses, but the headlines are singling me out as the problem. I can't make sense of it with my tequila headache, but obviously it's not good. Why else would my manager be knocking on my front door?

My stomach drops as Wade Ortega and I make eye contact through the window, and I launch myself off the barstool, hurrying to let him inside. Nausea roils my gut from moving too fast.

"Good morning," I cough out, trying not to heave again.

"Hey, Valerie, you weren't answering your phone," Wade says. Even on a Saturday morning, he's dressed impeccably in a gray suit, which is unsurprising. He likes suits. He's Puerto Rican, with warm brown skin and black hair with a splash of silver that's trimmed in a perfect fade.

Palming my forehead, I groan. "I left it on Do Not Disturb after the club last night." I had so many notifications this morning that I didn't even check who they were from.

"I'm assuming it's too much to hope that you haven't been online today?" Wade asks. I cringe at the question and usher him inside, bracing for the worst.

Wade is a former MLB outfielder turned talent manager, and he's damn good at his job. His team has been tirelessly working for years to further my career and maintain my image, and he's worth every dollar. But the thing about Wade is he prefers to do business in writing-text, email. I even got a postcard with an audition reminder that one time he was on a family ski trip without cell service.

If he's showing up unannounced, something is horribly wrong.

"Let me get you some water," I say, stalling for time. I head over to my fridge to get him a glass, then get one for myself after he cocks an eyebrow. With my hangover raging, it's not a bad idea to hydrate.

Fortunately, Wade doesn't comment on the ghostly green tinge of my skin. "Valerie, just tell me what you've seen."

"I've seen photos, haven't read too many articles . . . yet," I admit. After the last time I made headlines like this, I became obsessed and fell into a total depression spiral. My therapist gave me homework to scroll past the bullshit, but I'm not very good at homework. At least today, my headache is preventing a deep dive.

"Well, I can give you the SparkNotes," he says, letting out a huge sigh. "Has Theo Blake reached out to you at all?"

I freeze, confused. This question is "out of left field," to use one of Wade's favorite metaphors. Maybe I was drunk, but I'd definitely remember if we ran into my C-lister ex last night-even if it was only by the suffocating aura of Calvin Klein Eternity.

"What does Theo have to do with this? Aren't you talking about the photos of me and Roxanne?" I ask.

He sighs, running a hand over his hair. "Theo is spinning . . . something. Y'all broke up, right? You haven't rekindled anything and forgotten to tell me? No judgment, I just need to know what's going on so we can start damage control."

Damage control? More nausea makes my head swim, and I clench my jaw to fight it back. Nothing makes sense today.

"Not even a little. It's been more than a month since we split and we haven't had any contact."

"You should probably go to his page."

My jaw clenches even more, but I do what Wade says and grab my phone. I don't really care about anything Theo has to say at this point-we ended things when he signed on for a fantasy franchise in Spain, after we decided our relationship wasn't worth long distance. He was kind of a jerk about it, actually.

I set down my water and open the app, where Theo has posted a thirst trap on the beach that makes me grumble in irritation. He's shirtless, showing off that CrossFit-cultivated six-pack in the sunrise, and his blond hair swoops over his strikingly gray eyes.

But this post is unique for Theo, because it has a rambling caption instead of emojis:

I'm sure you've all seen the photos by now-they took
me by surprise as much as everyone else. This isn't how
I wanted to learn Valerie wasn't committed to our relationship, but I'm not going to beg her to stay with me, especially after cheating like this. I have some pride. And honestly, I'm so grateful to be free of the toxic relationship we were in for more than a year. Some people are so self-centered they don't care who they hurt. I'm going to spend some time working on myself, seeking happiness, and diving into creative pursuits while I'm overseas to film my next project. I can't pretend I'm not heartbroken, but I'm surrounded by people who love and appreciate me for who I am,
and I know my heart will heal from this pain.

XO, Theodore Anderson Blake

The absolute nerve of this asshole. I didn't realize you could be gaslit from halfway across the world, but I know we broke up last month. I was there.


We’re at a glamorous early-Hollywood tribute restaurant in Malibu-one of Theo’s favorites, since he thinks worshipping Frank Sinatra and Errol Flynn is an admirable personality trait. It’s the kind of place with warm lighting, no prices on the menu, and paparazzi lurking in the shadows outside.

Theo's been staring longingly at my New York strip ever since our orders arrived, obviously resentful of his boring kale salad. He keeps talking about getting "movie-star fit," even though we both know his real plan to shape up for those shirtless scenes is diuretics. Theo looks great naked already, but if I insist he doesn't need to lose weight for the role . . . he's just going to roll his eyes and tell me I'm lucky to have my superhero costume to hide any flaws.

He pulls out his phone, takes a litany of selfies with his vodka soda, and posts his favorite while I take another deliciously tender bite of steak. Apparently satisfied, he puts his phone face up on the table so he can watch his notifications, then reaches for my hand. I don't really want to stop eating, but I guess I should at least try to connect with him tonight. He's been so different lately, but we used to have fun.

I put my hand in his. He smiles at me, and I do my best to return it.

"Valerie, baby," he says. "This role is a huge step in my career. I think bringing any baggage with me to Spain is just bad energy, you know? Long distance will only hold me back. We've had a good run . . . but we should break up."


No one knew who Theo was until we dated. He was a competent television jobber with dozens of credits on IMDb that no one remembers, hustling for his big break . . . and he started getting loads of auditions once our relationship made “Who is Theo Blake?” trend. Now that the buzz about his new gig has faded from the media cycle, he needs me again.

"He's making this up for press," I say, groaning. Our relationship was never anything really special, but we had fun for most of the six months we were together. I thought he cared about me. Things were starting to grow sour before he dumped me, but I never expected he'd outright lie for engagement.

"For the record, I never liked him," Wade says.

"I know." I close my eyes and sigh, because I know what's coming. It always does. "They're running with his side of the story, aren't they?"

Wade grimaces. "Someone called you 'Hollywood's Heartbreaker' and it's starting to stick . . . so that's the gist of it, yeah."

"Shit." I'm used to this, but it doesn't mean it's not exhausting. When you become rock-star famous as a teen, no one gives you the grace to make mistakes and grow up: every wrong move is rehashed and reviled. I pissed off a few important people, forgot to bite my tongue in interviews, was a little too loud about my sexuality . . . and then some of my intimate photos ended up online. Suddenly I wasn't a person-I was kindling for the media, and they loved to watch me burn.

Anxiety churns in my already-queasy stomach as I trudge over to the espresso maker, suddenly desperate for caffeine. Does everyone really believe Theo's lies? What does Roxanne think?

I scroll through my endless notifications, and sure enough, there's a text from her:

Roxanne: Look, I had a great time last night, but didn't realize there was still something between you and Theo. I think it's best if I take myself out of the equation, so I told The Network I'm no longer interested in coming back for season 3. I've been considering a different offer anyways. Please don't call me again.

Damn it. The Network is the streaming service that owns Epic Theme Song, the show I've been lucky to star in for two seasons after years of struggling to pivot from music to Hollywood. Fans loved Roxanne's character. Now she's never coming back, and it's my fault.

I'm not completely heartbroken about losing a "relationship" with Roxanne, because this was just our first time out after she filmed a half-season arc on my show more than a year ago. But we had a good time. There was possibility. And Roxanne isn't even giving me a chance to explain; but we barely know each other. If our positions were reversed, I'd . . . probably handle it the same. This business is cruel: you have to look out for yourself first if you want to survive.

Guess I'll chalk last night up to one more mistake in my scrapbook of regrets.

"You still here, kid?" Wade asks, frowning over at me. I realize my hands are shaking as I try to set up my coffee shots, and decide I should just keep hydrating instead. I down my glass of water, wincing as the cold liquid hits my pounding brain.

"Unfortunately, an anvil hasn't fallen on my head yet, so yep, still standing," I say, grimacing. I could really use an anvil right about now.

He settles onto one of my barstools and gestures for me to join him. "Look, I know this must be upsetting, but you made me swear on my Boxster that I'd tell you the second we heard from The Network."

My stomach drops as I return to my earlier seat at the counter, folding my legs into a pretzel and hoping I don't look too eager. We've waited on renewal news for nearly a year. Our small but loyal fan base is holding strong, but they're getting ravenous for updates. And honestly, so am I, because my entire career is balancing on this.

"Just tell me."

He purses his lips. "They're not happy Roxanne took another offer, and the bad press doesn't help."

I blink, truly stunned. "They can't actually believe that bullshit too." You'd think a streaming service would be used to handling the media-especially stories that aren't true. First Gossip Daily, then Roxanne, now The Network-is no one going to give me a chance to tell my side of the story?

Wade runs a hand over his hair. "Roxanne was slated for a series regular promotion, and you cost them that possibility."

My nails dig sharply into my palms as I ball my fists. "They would have to actually renew the show to get series regulars. I don't see why one embarrassing night has anything to do with it."

"You know as well as I do that image is everything when you're promoting a teen-adjacent show."

"They don't worry about that for Young Sherlock."

"You didn't want to be on a sexy teen drama. If you get on the Young Sherlock cast, you can do whatever you want."