Work Text:
Beca Mitchell had produced albums in condemned warehouses, mixed vocals during a citywide blackout, and once talked an internationally famous drummer down from throwing a cymbal through a hotel window.
None of those experiences had prepared her for hiding from her ex-wife in a bathroom stall.
She stood with one hand braced against the polished black marble wall, staring down at shoes that had cost more than her first car and wondering which specific poor life choice had led her here, balancing on a toilet sit and trying to avoid being bisected by her underwear choice of the evening.
There were several contenders.
Agreeing to attend the North American Music Honors was probably the strongest. Given the she wasn’t nominated for anything and hated award shows and their pretentiously plated rubber chicken entrees.
Letting her stylist put her in a tuxedo with a narrow satin lapel and trousers that fit tighter than usual (read riding up and requiring a thong, an underwear item Beca usually never wore as she was convinced, they were part of a conspiracy by Big Underwear to further add to the trials of being a woman in contemporary society) was another.
Telling her ex-wife, she was bringing a date had definitely been a mistake. A pretty damn huge one given her dating life was drier than the Sahara.
It had happened three weeks ago during an email exchange that had started professionally and gone wrong almost immediately.
Beca had needed approval to use an unreleased demo in a documentary about the making of the album that had turned Vivienne Vale from a promising singer into the biggest pop star in the world (Trademark pending. Seriously).
Vivienne had approved it. Then, for no apparent reason except that she had always possessed a supernatural ability to find Beca’s weakest emotional pressure point, she had added:
I assume I’ll see you at the Honors. I’m bringing someone.
Beca had stared at the message for nearly ten minutes.
Then she had typed:
Yeah. Same.
Two words.
Two stupid, life-destroying words.
Now Vivienne was somewhere outside the bathroom, probably looking flawless and luminous beneath a thousand camera flashes, accompanied by whichever tall, beautiful woman had most recently appeared beside her in grainy restaurant photographs.
Meanwhile, Beca’s date was imaginary.
Her team had not been impressed.
“You told Vivienne you were bringing somebody?” Theo, her manager, had asked that afternoon.
Beca had been sitting in the back of an SUV while three people attempted to make her look as though she enjoyed being photographed.
“It was an instinctive defensive response.” Beca sounded defensive saying this.
“That’s not a thing.” Theo could have agreed with her to keep her happy. However, agreeing with her, it seems was not going to be his thing that night.
“It is when you’re divorced.” So, so, so, fucking divorced. Not moping about that, not at all. Everything is tickety-boo in the old Mitchell romance department.
“Then bring someone.” Theo had on his exasperated turtle face. Like he’d bitten into moldy lettuce.
“I’m not hiring a date.” Maybe I should have?
“Who said anything about hiring one?”
“You gave me the number of a model named Arielle. Like some kind of testudinian pimp.”
“Arielle is lovely. Wait how do you know that word?”
“Since working with you I have become familiar with all things turtle. Arielle asked whether I wanted her to prepare a backstory and I quote “what’s my favourite position and was “I a giver or a taker?”
Theo had paused, his eyes wider. Lesbian stuff still made him awkward. The short pantsed spotty faced British schoolboy still present inside the too hip it hurts music industry mover and shaker was never too far away when things got sapphic.
“That’s professionalism.”
“That was something I am not getting entangled with. She’d end up wearing my skin for a bathrobe.”
So Beca had turned down Arielle.
By saying she was dealing with a plumbing emergency and was tired out from plunging. A big shit. Like a ginormous one. The Loch Ness Monster of Turds. So, she was tied up with fecal matters and would not be attending.
After she panicked for about ten minutes and berated herself for her sending a text that seemed to reveal a coprophilic side of her the music world had no idea about she did the only thing she could think of.
She blocked Arielle on her phone.
And all social media she had a presence on.
Okay, realistically she had her assistant do that because she had no idea what platforms she was on and new ones kept popping up.
Therefore, she had insisted that she was perfectly capable of attending an event alone. She was a respected producer. She had three Grammys already, two more Grammy nominations that year for which, rumour had it, she was a shoo-in for, and enough industry clout that record label executives occasionally laughed too loudly at jokes she hadn’t made.
She did not need a date.
She especially did not need a fake date.
She was Beca Effin Mitchell, hit maker whose output went cha-ching and made those aforementioned executives fat bonuses each year.
That confidence had lasted until she saw Vivienne on the carpet.
Beca had been ushered out of the car into a wall of lights and voices.
She had smiled with what she hoped was mysterious restraint but probably looked like intestinal discomfort. She answered questions about her latest project, nodded when somebody shouted Vivienne’s name at her, and kept moving.
Then she had glanced toward the far end of the carpet.
Vivienne stood beneath the event’s enormous gold logo, one hand resting lightly against the waist of a stunning blonde woman in a silver dress.
Vivienne wore red.
Of course she did.
She had always understood color. She understood angles, lighting, timing, the precise expression that could launch ten thousand fan edits before the night was over.
Beca had understood sound.
That had once been enough for both of them.
The first time Beca heard Vivienne sing, she had known exactly what to do with her voice.
It was smoky but clear, powerful without being overworked. There was grief inside it even when she sang about joy. Beca had built a production around that contradiction, stripping away the overdone percussion her old label favored and replacing it with sparse piano, layered harmonies, and a low electronic pulse that sounded almost like a heartbeat.
The single had gone platinum.
The album had gone diamond.
Their marriage had lasted four years.
The divorce had been finalized eleven months ago.
Beca turned away before Vivienne could see her.
She had made it through the lobby, past the first cocktail reception, and approximately thirty seconds into the ballroom before panic set in.
Then she had fled to the bathroom.
It was not her finest moment.
Outside the stall, the door opened.
Beca stopped breathing.
Heels crossed the tile.
There was the faint rustle of fabric and then silence.
Beca looked down.
Her shoes were visible beneath the stall door.
She stepped off the toilet seat after the third near miss with getting a Louboutin full of toilet water.
She lifted one foot experimentally, as though that might somehow make her invisible.
The woman outside cleared her throat.
“Are you all right?”
Beca closed her eyes.
“Yep.” Keep it short and sweet, Mitchell.
There was a pause.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.” One-word answers, you got this.
Another pause.
“You’ve been standing in there with your shoes facing the wrong way for about a minute.”
Beca looked down again.
She was, in fact, facing the wall.
“That’s how I use bathrooms.”
“Oh.”
“It’s European.”
The woman laughed.
It was not a polite laugh. It was warm, surprised, and impossible to mistake for anything other than genuine amusement.
Despite herself, Beca smiled.
“You can stop monitoring me now,” she said.
“I wasn’t monitoring you.”
“You commented on my bathroom orientation.”
“I was concerned.”
“Well, don’t be.”
“All right.”
The heels moved away.
Beca released a breath.
Then the woman said, “Although if you’re hiding from someone, this probably isn’t the best bathroom.”
Beca turned slowly toward the door.
“Why?”
“It’s the one closest to the ballroom. People are constantly coming in.”
“Fantastic.”
“There’s a quieter one upstairs near the east terrace.”
Beca hesitated.
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve hidden there before.”
Something about the answer made Beca unlock the stall.
She opened the door cautiously.
The woman standing near the sinks was breathtaking.
Not in the calculated, surgically perfected way that dominated events like this. There was something open about her face, something bright and alive. Her red hair fell in glossy waves over one shoulder, and her blue eyes were lined just enough to make them seem even more vivid.
She wore a deep blue gown with a square neckline and long, sheer sleeves embroidered with tiny silver beads. The fabric fitted her waist before falling in a soft column to the floor.
She looked vaguely familiar.
Beca stared for half a second too long.
The woman smiled.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Bathroom refugee?”
Beca stepped fully out of the stall and adjusted her jacket.
“I’m not hiding.”
“Of course not.”
“I’m strategically avoiding.”
“That sounds much more dignified.”
“It is.”
The woman picked up a small, jeweled clutch from the counter.
“I’m Chloe.”
“Beca.”
Chloe’s smile changed.
It was subtle, but Beca saw recognition arrive.
“Beca Mitchell?”
Beca sighed. Great now she’ll have to sign something.
“Unfortunately.”
Chloe leaned one hip against the counter and looked at her with interest.
“I wouldn’t say unfortunately.” Her voice sounded certain.
“You don’t know me.”
“I know your work.”
“That’s different.”
“It is,” Chloe agreed. “Your work is probably less likely to insult me in a bathroom.”
“I didn’t insult you.” Beca was affronted.
“You implied I was monitoring your toilet habits.” Chloe volleyed back.
“You were.” Were they flirting?
Chloe laughed again.
Beca liked the sound more than she wanted to.
“So,” Chloe said, “who are we strategically avoiding?”
“No one.” Lies, big fat lies, you big fat liar.
Chloe waited.
Beca turned toward the mirror and pretended to examine her hair.
It looked exactly the way it had five minutes earlier: dark, tousled, and carefully styled to appear unstyled. Beca had always found the concept offensive.
“I’m just not big on these things,” she said.
“Music awards?”
“Crowds. Cameras. Conversations with people who say things like ‘we should build together’ when they mean ‘I want something from you.’”
“That’s fair.”
“And my team made me come.”
“They physically forced you into the tuxedo?”
“There were threats.” Keep it vague and mysterious, Mitchell.
“It is a good tuxedo. You wear it well.”
Beca glanced at her.
Chloe’s eyes swept over her with an appreciation that felt unmistakably real.
Beca looked back at the mirror before Chloe could see the effect it had on her.
“Thanks,” she muttered.
“You’re welcome.”
Silence settled between them, but it was not uncomfortable.
Chloe opened her clutch and checked her lipstick.
Beca tried not to watch.
She failed.
Chloe caught her eyes in the mirror.
Beca immediately looked at the ceiling.
“So,” Chloe said, “are you waiting for the person you’re avoiding to leave?”
“I’m not avoiding anyone.”
“Right. It’s the general vibe of the place. Totes bad juju” Chloe did not sound convinced. One iota.
Beca exhaled.
“My ex-wife is here.”
Chloe lowered the lipstick.
“Oh.”
“With a date.”
“Oh.”
“And I may have told her I was also bringing a date.”
Chloe’s mouth twitched.
Beca pointed at her reflection.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re making a face.”
“It’s a sympathetic face.”
“That is not sympathy.”
“It’s partially sympathy.”
Beca turned around.
“I didn’t plan it. She emailed me that she was bringing someone, and I reacted.”
“By inventing a person.”
“Yes.”
“Did you give the imaginary person a name?”
“No.”
“Occupation?”
“No.”
“Complicated family history?”
“No.”
“I’m just checking how deep the deception goes.”
“It was two words in an email.”
“What words?”
“‘Yeah. Same.’”
Chloe pressed her lips together.
Beca narrowed her eyes.
“You’re laughing behind your lips.”
“A little.”
“This is why I don’t tell strangers things.” Beca through her hands in the air in exasperation.
“You told me because you wanted help.” Chloe’s eyes sparkled mischievously.
“I absolutely did not.”
Chloe returned the lipstick to her clutch.
“Do you want help?”
Beca opened her mouth.
Closed it.
She thought of Vivienne in red, standing with one hand around somebody else’s waist. She thought of the possibility of crossing paths with them alone. Vivienne would not be cruel, exactly.
That might have been easier.
Vivienne would be gracious.
Interested.
She would look at Beca with that soft, careful concern that implied she was doing well and hoped Beca was doing well too.
Beca hated that look.
“I need to make it through the reception,” she said reluctantly. “Then I can sit at my table and pretend to be deeply invested in the lighting design.”
Chloe nodded thoughtfully.
“Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“I’ll cover you.”
Beca blinked.
“What?”
“I’ll be your date.”
Beca stared at her.
Chloe gestured between them.
“You need a person. I’m a person.”
“You’re a stranger.”
“That makes me ideal. No complicated history.”
“You’re offering to pretend to date someone you met in a bathroom.”
“You said your ex-wife is out there.”
“She is.”
“And you look like you’re considering climbing into the air vent.”
Beca glanced upward.
Chloe followed her gaze.
“No.”
“I wasn’t actually going to.”
“Good.”
Beca studied her suspiciously.
“Why would you do that?”
Chloe’s expression softened.
“Because your song changed my life.”
Beca froze.
“What song?”
“‘Running Home.’”
The title landed between them.
It had been the final track on Vivienne’s first album. Never released as a single, never performed on an awards show. It was quiet and strange and almost entirely ignored by radio.
Beca had written the music before she met Vivienne.
She had been twenty-four, broke, angry, and sleeping on a friend’s couch. The melody had come to her at four in the morning after a phone call with her father that ended badly.
Vivienne had written the lyrics.
Together, they had made something raw enough that Beca still struggled to listen to it.
“You know that one?” she asked.
Chloe nodded.
“I was filming my first major movie. I’d moved across the country, I didn’t know anyone, and I was terrified every day that someone would figure out I didn’t belong there.”
Beca looked at her more closely.
“You’re an actress?”
Chloe blinked.
“Yes.”
“Like professionally?”
A grin tugged at Chloe’s lips.
“Occasionally.”
“Huh.”
“You really don’t know who I am.”
“Should I? I honestly don’t watch a lot of movies. Or any actually. I’m sure you’re good at stuff. Acting stuff.”
Chloe seemed delighted.
“No. This is incredible.”
“What is?”
“Nothing.”
Beca frowned.
Chloe stepped closer.
“I listened to that song every morning in my trailer. There’s a line about building a home inside yourself when the world won’t make room for you.”
“Vivienne wrote that.”
“You made it sound true.”
Beca’s throat tightened.
She looked away.
Compliments about her music were common. Compliments about production were usually technical: clean arrangement, interesting textures, strong vocal layering.
This felt different.
“Anyway,” Chloe continued gently, “I owe you one.”
“You don’t. I could pay you…” Beca popped open the clutch perfectly chosen to match her tuxedo and looked inside. “Sixty-five dollars…and some tic-tacs.’
Chloe snort laughed. “Save your dinero big spender. And keep the mints, you might need them later.’’
Here the redhead gave a saucy wink that threw Beca off kilter for a moment.
Recovering, she tried again. “I could cover your drinks for tonight?”
Chloe shook her head. “It’s an open bar. This may not be a top ranked award show, but they know enough to keep the crowd well lubricated.”
“You really DON’T have to do this, Chloe.”
“I know. But I’m offering.”
Beca looked at the bathroom door.
Then at Chloe.
“This is ridiculous.”
“Definitely.”
“We’ll probably run into her immediately.”
“Probably.”
“She’s going to ask questions.”
“I can answer questions.”
“You said you’re an actress, not an interrogator.”
“There’s overlap.”
Beca rubbed a hand over her face.
“Okay.”
Chloe’s eyebrows rose.
“Okay?”
“Just for the reception.”
“Of course.”
“No kissing.”
Chloe looked amused.
“I wasn’t planning to attack you.”
“I’m setting boundaries.”
“Very healthy.”
“And don’t make up anything weird.”
“What qualifies as weird?”
“We didn’t meet rescuing dolphins. I’m not secretly royalty. We don’t own a vineyard.”
Chloe nodded solemnly.
“Understood. No dolphins, crowns, or grapes.”
Beca pointed at her.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Chloe moved toward the door.
Beca stayed where she was.
Chloe looked back.
“Coming?”
“In a second.”
“Beca.”
“What?”
“You have to leave the bathroom for this to work.”
Beca muttered something unrepeatable and followed.
Chloe whispered in Beca’s, her mouth close enough to send an involuntary shiver down the producer’s spine. “Just play along, please, Beca Mitchell. Consider this a night of improv.”
Beca looked panicked. “I suck at improv and lying and deception and making stuff up.”
She was starting to babble. If she didn’t chill, she’d get panic induced hiccups. It had happened to her before. Right before she delivered her first Grammy acceptance speech. According to her assistant, clips from that night still scored tons of view whenever they showed up in “Remember When” Post. Her humiliation was meme worthy, it seemed.
The noise of the event rushed at them the moment the door opened.
Music thumped beneath hundreds of conversations. Servers moved through the lobby carrying trays of champagne. The walls glittered beneath gold light, and every few feet someone posed in front of a camera.
Beca’s shoulders tightened.
Chloe noticed.
Without comment, she slipped her arm through Beca’s.
The touch was light but grounding.
“You okay?” Chloe asked.
“No.”
“Good start.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.” Chloe smiled a secret smile.
That was devastating in what it promised.
They made it six steps.
“Beca?”
Beca stopped.
Of course.
Of course they ran into her immediately.
Vivienne stood directly in front of them.
Up close, she was even more beautiful. Her dark hair had been swept into a sleek knot, leaving her shoulders bare above the red dress. Diamonds glittered at her throat. Her curves had curves and the smile she gave Beca made her stomach drop to her shoes.
Beside her stood the blonde woman Beca had seen on the carpet. A new and upcoming pop singer. The gay Taylor Swift the media was calling her.
They looked gorgeous together.
Vivienne’s date looked between Beca and Chloe.
Her eyes widened.
“Oh my God.”
Chloe’s fingers tightened slightly around Beca’s arm.
Vivienne stared at Chloe too.
Then she recovered.
“Chloe Beale,” she said, her voice bright with surprise. “I had no idea you were coming tonight. We are honoured by your presence.”
Beca looked at Chloe.
Chloe smiled with effortless warmth.
“I almost didn’t,” she said. “But Beca convinced me.”
Beca’s head snapped toward her.
Vivienne’s gaze dropped to their linked arms.
Something unreadable moved across her face.
“Beca convinced you,” she repeated.
Chloe leaned closer to Beca, her shoulder brushing against hers.
“She can be very persuasive.” Chloe purred when she said those words.
Beca tried to smile.
It felt like a medical emergency.
The blonde woman extended her hand.
“I’m Lila Hart. I’m such a huge fan. I’ve seen A Northern Sky at least six times.”
“Six?” Chloe said. “I’m impressed you recovered after the first.”
Lila laughed too loudly.
Vivienne was still watching Beca.
“You didn’t tell me your date was Chloe Beale.”
Beca swallowed.
“You didn’t ask.”
Chloe turned her dazzling smile on Vivienne.
“Beca doesn’t like to show off.”
The words were delivered with such intimate fondness that even Beca nearly believed them.
Vivienne’s eyebrows lifted.
“No,” she said. “She never did.”
There was history in the sentence.
Chloe seemed to hear it.
Her hand slid down from Beca’s arm and into her hand.
Their fingers intertwined.
Beca forgot how breathing worked.
Chloe glanced at her, eyes warm and playful.
“Although,” she said, “I’m working on that.”
Vivienne’s expression shifted.
Only slightly.
But Beca knew her well enough to recognize it.
Surprise.
Possibly jealousy.
Definitely confusion.
Lila was still staring at Chloe as though she had descended from heaven.
“I loved you in Winter Garden,” she said. “That courtroom scene was unbelievable.”
“Thank you.”
“And you’re filming with Daniel Cho next, right?”
“For the next few months.”
Beca looked at Chloe again.
Chloe squeezed her hand.
Vivienne noticed.
“Well,” Vivienne said, “this is unexpected.”
“It is,” Beca agreed.
Chloe tilted her head.
“In the best way.”
Her performance was flawless.
The gaze.
The touch.
The soft smile that seemed reserved entirely for Beca.
Beca, who had spent years working with performers, could recognize talent when she saw it.
Chloe was not merely helping.
She was constructing an entire relationship in real time.
And she was terrifyingly convincing.
Vivienne gave them both a careful smile.
“We should catch up later.”
“Definitely,” Chloe said.
Beca said nothing.
Vivienne and Lila moved past them, though Lila looked over her shoulder twice.
Beca waited until they were out of earshot.
Then she pulled Chloe toward a quiet space beside one of the massive floral arrangements.
“Who are you?”
Chloe’s eyes sparkled.
“I told you. Chloe.”
“No. She knew you. Her date knew you. They were acting like you’re…”
“An actress?”
“You said occasionally.”
“I was being modest.”
“How famous are you?”
Chloe considered.
“I’m recognizable.”
“Chloe.”
“I’ve had a good few years.”
Beca stared at her.
“You’re kind of a big deal, aren’t you?”
Chloe’s grin widened.
“You really are a pop culture ignoramus.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Clearly.”
“You could have warned me.”
“And miss that expression?”
“What expression?”
“The one where you realized your fake bathroom date outranks your ex-wife in celebrity gossip.”
Beca glanced toward Vivienne.
Vivienne was speaking to someone across the lobby, but her eyes flicked back toward them.
Chloe noticed that too.
She stepped closer to Beca.
“So,” she murmured, “do you want to make this convincing or not?”
Beca’s heart stumbled.
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Maybe.”
“This was supposed to last five minutes.”
Chloe’s gaze dropped briefly to Beca’s mouth before returning to her eyes.
“We’ve only used three.”
Beca should have walked away.
She should have thanked Chloe, escaped to her assigned table, and spent the rest of the evening discussing compression software with men named Brent.
Instead, she heard herself say, “Fine.”
Because redheads in blue dresses turned out to be a weakness of hers.
Who knew?
Chloe’s smile softened.
“Fine?”
“Stay through the reception.”
“Gladly.”
Beca looked toward Vivienne one more time.
Then she looked back at Chloe Beale … the famous actress she had apparently met while facing the wrong direction in a bathroom stall.
“This is going to be a disaster,” Beca said.
Chloe slipped her arm through hers again.
“Probably.”
Together, they walked toward the ballroom.
Walking into the ballroom with Chloe Beale on her arm turned out to be significantly different from walking into the ballroom alone.
Beca had expected a few glances.
She had not expected the room to tilt.
Heads turned in waves as they passed. Conversations paused. People who had spent years perfecting the art of appearing unimpressed became abruptly fascinated by their champagne glasses while watching Chloe over the rims.
Several guests smiled at her with the particular intensity of people hoping to be remembered.
Chloe smiled back at all of them.
Not broadly. Not eagerly.
Just enough.
Beca noticed that Chloe appeared to know exactly how much attention to give each person without allowing herself to be detained. A touch to an elbow here. A warm hello there. A promise to speak later that sounded sincere even when there was no realistic chance of it happening.
It was a skill.
Beca had spent most of her career avoiding rooms like this. When she had to attend, she normally found the nearest musician she knew and spent the night discussing equipment until everyone else left them alone.
Chloe moved through the crowd as if she had been born knowing where every camera was.
“You’ve done this before,” Beca muttered.
Chloe kept smiling at a passing director.
“Once or twice.”
“You’re very good at looking like you enjoy strangers.”
“It’s one of my gifts.”
“I usually look like I’m being held hostage.”
“That is also a gift. A badly wrapped gift.”
Beca glanced at her.
Chloe’s smile deepened.
They reached the ballroom doors, where an attendant checked their table assignments.
“Ms. Mitchell,” he said. “Table twelve.”
Then he looked at Chloe and almost visibly forgot the rest of his sentence.
“Ms. Beale. You’re at table three.”
Chloe looked at Beca.
Beca looked at Chloe.
The attendant looked between them.
“Oh,” he said. “Of course. I can have that adjusted.”
“No need,” Beca said quickly.
Chloe spoke at the same time.
“That would be wonderful.”
Beca turned her head.
Chloe continued smiling at the attendant.
“Thank you.”
“Certainly.”
He hurried away.
Beca leaned closer.
“You have your own table.”
“I have a seat at someone else’s table.”
“A much more important table.”
“Debatable.”
“It’s table three.”
“Perhaps the numbers are random.”
“They’re not random.”
Chloe’s eyes flicked toward her.
“You sound worried.”
“I’m not worried.”
“Your jaw is doing a thing.”
“What thing?”
“The clenched thing.”
“My jaw is normal.”
“It looks strong. Very sexy and smoldering.”
Beca stared at her.
Chloe’s expression remained innocent.
Before Beca could respond, a photographer stepped in front of them.
“Chloe! Beca! Together, please.”
Beca immediately began to retreat.
Chloe’s arm tightened around hers.
“Don’t abandon me, darling.”
“You like cameras.”
“I like you more.”
WTF?
The words were quiet and quick.
Beca knew Chloe was acting.
She knew it.
Unfortunately, her body had not been included in the discussion.
Her stomach dipped, and for one bewildering second, she forgot where to put her hands.
Chloe guided her toward the step-and-repeat wall set up beside the ballroom entrance. Gold letters shimmered behind them beneath the North American Music Honors logo.
“Just breathe,” Chloe murmured.
“I am breathing.”
“Not successfully.”
The photographers began shouting.
“Chloe, this way!”
“Beca, look left!”
“Closer together!”
“Chloe, hand on her waist!”
Chloe obeyed.
Her palm settled at the small of Beca’s back.
Beca nearly left her body.
The touch was warm even through the tuxedo jacket. Chloe stepped closer until their sides aligned, blue silk brushing black wool.
“Smile,” Chloe whispered.
“I am smiling.”
“You look like you know where a body is buried.”
“I might.”
“That’s hot.”
Beca’s head snapped toward her.
The cameras erupted.
Chloe laughed.
Real laughter, Beca thought.
Not the polished version she had used with Lila. Not the easy public laugh she seemed able to deploy on command.
This was the same laugh from the bathroom.
Warm. Surprised. Bright enough to make Beca smile too.
The photographers shouted louder.
“That’s it!”
“Look at each other!”
“Beautiful!”
Chloe turned her face toward Beca.
For one suspended moment, the noise around them softened.
Beca was aware of the cameras. The crowd. Vivienne somewhere behind them.
But mostly, she was aware of Chloe’s hand on her back and the tiny silver beads along Chloe’s sleeve catching the light.
Chloe’s gaze held hers.
Her smile slowly gentled.
Beca forgot this was supposed to be a performance.
“Perfect,” one of the photographers called.
The spell broke.
Chloe guided Beca away from the wall before she could embarrass herself further.
“You did well,” Chloe said.
“I survived.”
“You looked very convincing.”
“I looked terrified.”
“Some people find emotional vulnerability appealing.”
“I wasn’t emotionally vulnerable. There were thirty cameras pointed at my face.”
“Same expression, apparently.”
A server passed with champagne.
Beca took a glass.
Chloe took one as well.
“You don’t have to keep doing this,” Beca said.
Chloe’s eyes moved toward the far side of the ballroom.
Beca followed her gaze.
Vivienne stood near the stage speaking to the head of her record label. Lila was beside her, though she seemed distracted.
Watching them.
Vivienne was watching too.
The moment Beca looked over, her ex-wife smiled.
It was small and composed.
Chloe lifted her champagne glass to her lips.
“Do you want me to stop?” she asked.
Beca should have said yes.
She should have remembered that this was absurd.
Chloe was a stranger. A famous stranger, apparently, though Beca still did not understand exactly how famous.
Their entire relationship had been constructed beside a bathroom sink less than twenty minutes ago.
“No,” Beca said.
Chloe lowered the glass.
“No?”
“Not yet.”
Something flickered in Chloe’s eyes.
Approval, perhaps.
Or interest.
“Then we should establish a few details,” Chloe said.
“What details?”
“Our story.”
“We don’t need a story.”
“We absolutely need a story.”
“Why?”
“Because somebody will ask how we met.”
“We can say it’s private.”
“That makes it sound scandalous.”
“Great.”
“And then people will speculate.”
“They do that anyway.”
Chloe considered her.
“True.”
Beca took a drink.
“Okay. Fine. We met through work.”
“Boring.”
“It’s believable.”
“We met at a recording studio.”
“Too obvious.”
“I was recording a song for a film.”
“You sing?”
Chloe looked offended.
“I sing beautifully.”
“Everyone thinks that.”
“You’re unpleasant.” The words softened by a small smile.
“You offered to fake-date me.” Beca felt she was doing okay holding up her end of repartee. She was actually having … fun?
“A lapse in judgment.” Oh, this redhead was good.
Beca smiled despite herself.
Chloe noticed.
“There it is,” she said.
“What?”
“You pretend you don’t enjoy me, but you do.” Chloe looked smug.
“I don’t know you.”
“That hasn’t stopped you.”
Beca’s smile vanished.
Chloe looked deeply pleased.
“You’re cocky,” Beca said.
“I’m an actress. It’s a survival mechanism.”
“So is lying.”
“Exactly.”
A tall man in a velvet dinner jacket appeared beside them.
“Chloe.”
His voice carried easy familiarity.
Chloe turned.
“Marcus.”
He kissed her cheek.
Beca disliked him immediately.
Marcus was handsome in the bland, mathematically precise way casting directors seemed to adore. Perfect teeth. Carefully maintained stubble. Hair that looked casual despite having almost certainly required a professional.
His attention shifted to Beca.
“And you must be the mystery woman.”
Beca glanced at Chloe.
Chloe’s expression remained serene.
“Beca, this is Marcus Hale. We worked together last year.”
Marcus extended his hand.
“Obviously I know who Beca Mitchell is.”
“Great,” Beca said.
His smile faltered slightly.
Chloe pressed her lips together.
Marcus recovered.
“I didn’t know you two knew each other.”
“We’ve been keeping things quiet,” Chloe said.
There it was again.
That soft, intimate tone.
Beca had produced singers who needed forty takes to sound half as convincing.
Marcus looked between them.
“How long?”
Chloe turned to Beca.
Beca stared back.
This was exactly why they should have invented a story.
“Three months,” Chloe said.
“At least,” Beca added, for reasons she could not explain.
Chloe’s eyebrow lifted almost imperceptibly.
“Four I think actually darling,” she corrected.
“Right. Four.” Beca went along with it. Maybe she could do improv. Stand-up comedy? Wait, Mr. Smarm was talking again.
Marcus nodded slowly.
“And how did you meet?”
Beca resisted the urge to glare at Chloe.
Chloe’s mouth twitched.
“At a charity auction,” she said.
Beca almost choked on her champagne.
Marcus seemed charmed.
“Really?”
“Beca bid against me on a vintage guitar.”
“That does sound like her.”
Beca frowned.
“You don’t know me.”
Marcus laughed as though she had made a joke.
Chloe continued.
“It was a 1964 Gibson.”
“1963,” Beca said automatically.
Chloe turned toward her.
Beca saw triumph in her eyes.
“She won,” Chloe said. “Then felt guilty and took me for a drink.”
“I would not feel guilty about winning a guitar.”
“No,” Chloe agreed. “That part took some convincing.”
Marcus smiled.
“So, who got the guitar?”
Beca and Chloe answered together.
“She did.”
They looked at one another.
Marcus laughed again.
Chloe covered smoothly.
“She keeps it at my place.”
Beca’s pulse jumped.
Marcus’s expression sharpened with interest.
“Oh. Then it’s serious.”
Chloe’s gaze stayed on Beca.
“I think so.”
The words were quiet enough to feel private.
Beca knew they were meant for Marcus.
She still felt them land.
Someone called Marcus’s name from across the room.
He excused himself with another kiss to Chloe’s cheek and a nod toward Beca.
Beca watched him leave.
“You made up an entire meet-cute,” she said.
“I panicked.” She didn’t sound panicked at all. In fact, Chloe sounded quite pleased with herself.
“You don’t look like you panic.”
“I’m very talented.”
“There was no guitar.”
“There could be. We’ll never know. Schrodinger’s Guitar.”
“I hate charity auctions.”
“I know that now.”
“You said four months.”
“You said at least three.”
“I was supporting your lie.”
“Our lie.”
Beca looked at her.
Chloe lifted her glass.
“To teamwork.”
Beca clinked her glass against Chloe’s before she could stop herself.
They were still standing close when the ballroom lights dimmed briefly, signaling that guests should find their seats.
The attendant returned.
“Ms. Beale, Ms. Mitchell, we’ve arranged two places at table twelve.”
Beca’s eyebrows rose.
“You moved her to twelve?”
The attendant smiled nervously.
“Ms. Beale requested it.”
Chloe thanked him.
Beca waited until he had left.
“You gave up table three.”
“I wasn’t attached to it.”
“Who’s at table three?”
“The director of my next movie, two studio executives, and the chair of the network presenting tonight.”
Beca stared at her.
“And you gave that up to sit beside a producer who didn’t know you existed an hour ago.”
“You knew I existed.”
“I knew you were a person.”
“Progress.”
Chloe began walking toward table twelve.
Beca caught her wrist.
Chloe stopped.
“Why are you really doing this?”
The question came out more seriously than Beca intended.
Chloe’s expression changed.
The playful confidence softened.
“I told you.”
“The song.”
“Yes.”
“That can’t be the whole reason.”
“No,” Chloe admitted.
The crowd flowed around them.
Beca waited.
Chloe glanced toward their joined hands.
Beca realized she was still holding Chloe’s wrist and let go.
Chloe did not move away.
“I came tonight alone too,” she said.
Beca blinked.
“I thought famous actresses had teams for this.”
“Oh, I have a team. They wanted me to bring a costar.”
“Marcus?”
“Possibly.”
“And you said no.”
“I’m tired of pretending to date men for publicity.”
Beca’s expression shifted.
Chloe continued before she could respond.
“My last two relationships were public. Very public. One ended badly, and one ended because neither of us could tell which parts of it were still ours. My last private relationship ended because keeping up appearances meant more to her than me.”
Beca understood that better than she wanted to.
“With Vivienne, everything became content,” she said.
Chloe nodded.
“Exactly.”
Beca glanced across the ballroom.
Vivienne was sitting at table four, laughing at something Lila said.
Once, Beca had known every version of that laugh.
The polite one.
The real one.
The one Vivienne used when cameras were nearby.
By the end, Beca had not always been able to tell them apart.
“So pretending with me is better?” she asked.
Chloe gave a small smile.
“You didn’t know who I was.”
“That’s your standard?”
“Tonight, apparently.”
Beca studied her.
Chloe’s openness made her uncomfortable.
Not because she disliked it.
Because she did not.
“Come on,” Chloe said gently. “Before they give our seats away.”
Their table was populated by producers, songwriters, label executives, and one elderly composer who seemed entirely uninterested in celebrity.
Beca knew most of them.
They all knew Chloe.
The introductions triggered a new round of surprises.
“You two are together?”
“For four months, apparently,” Beca muttered.
Chloe kicked her lightly beneath the table.
Beca looked at her.
Chloe smiled sweetly.
Dinner began.
Between courses, the first awards were presented. Chloe clapped enthusiastically for everyone, even categories she clearly knew nothing about.
Beca leaned closer.
“You have no idea what mastering engineering is.”
“I know it’s important.”
“You applauded before they read the nominees.”
“I’m supportive.”
“You almost started a standing ovation.”
“The woman giving her speech looked nervous. We support women in the arts.”
Beca shook her head.
Chloe took a sip of wine.
Under the table, their knees touched.
Neither moved.
The contact should not have mattered.
It did.
When Vivienne’s category was announced, Beca felt the entire table subtly turn toward her.
Vivienne was nominated for Artist of the Year.
Of course she was.
Her latest album had broken streaming records and produced three number-one singles.
Beca had not produced it.
That had been one of the first things Vivienne did after their separation: hire someone else.
Beca told herself it did not bother her.
She had been lying about that for almost two years.
Onstage, the presenter opened the envelope.
“And the North American Music Honor goes to… Vivienne Vale.”
The room erupted.
Vivienne covered her mouth with one hand. Lila embraced her. The cameras moved close as Vivienne rose and made her way toward the stage.
Beca applauded.
Beside her, Chloe applauded too.
Vivienne accepted the award with practiced grace.
She thanked her label. Her fans. Her band. Her new creative team.
Then she paused.
“And I want to acknowledge someone who isn’t part of this album but is part of the reason I’m standing here.”
Beca went still.
The camera found her immediately.
Her face appeared on the enormous screens beside the stage.
She hated award shows.
“Beca Mitchell heard something in me before anyone else did,” Vivienne said. “She taught me to trust my instincts, even when they led me away from her.”
A few people laughed softly.
Beca did not.
Vivienne’s eyes found hers across the ballroom.
“I will always be grateful.”
The applause began again.
Beca stared at the stage.
Grateful.
It was such a harmless word.
It hurt anyway.
Chloe’s hand found hers beneath the table.
Beca looked down.
Their fingers were linked in her lap.
This time, there were no photographers demanding it.
No ex-wife standing a few feet away.
No one could see.
Chloe squeezed once.
Beca squeezed back.
Vivienne left the stage.
The ceremony continued.
Beca did not hear much of it.
During the next break, she stood.
“I need air.”
Chloe began to rise.
“You don’t have to come.”
“I know.”
Beca looked at her.
Chloe picked up her clutch.
“That hasn’t stopped me yet.”
They slipped out through a side door and found the east terrace Chloe had mentioned earlier.
It was quiet.
Below them, the city glittered beneath the night sky. Traffic streamed through the streets in red and white lines.
Beca gripped the stone railing.
Chloe stood beside her without speaking.
After a moment, Beca said, “She didn’t mean anything by it.”
Chloe rested her forearms against the railing.
“That doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”
“She does that.”
“What?”
“Says things that are technically kind.”
Chloe waited.
Beca stared at the city.
“I produced every record that made her famous. I knew how she breathed between lines. I knew when she was pushing too hard and when she was scared. I could tell from one note whether she’d slept the night before.”
“That’s intimate.”
“Music was how we talked.”
“And then?”
Beca’s jaw tightened.
“Then it became the only way we talked.”
Chloe turned toward her.
Beca continued before she could lose her nerve.
“She wanted bigger. Louder. More public. I wanted…” She exhaled. “I don’t know. I wanted to still recognize us.”
“And did you?”
“Not at the end.”
The terrace door opened behind them.
Beca stiffened.
Vivienne stepped outside.
Alone.
For one brief second, nobody spoke.
Then Vivienne looked at Chloe.
“Could I borrow Beca?”
Chloe’s expression remained pleasant.
Beca noticed the tension in her shoulders anyway.
“It’s okay,” Beca said.
Chloe looked at her.
Beca nodded.
“I’ll be inside,” Chloe said.
She moved past Vivienne.
At the door, she glanced back once.
Then she was gone.
Vivienne approached the railing.
“Chloe Beale.”
Beca closed her eyes.
“Please don’t.”
“I’m not criticizing.”
“You’re doing the voice.”
“What voice?”
“The one that says you have seventeen questions but want me to volunteer the answers.”
Vivienne smiled faintly.
“You know me.”
“Knew.”
The smile disappeared.
Beca immediately regretted it.
Vivienne looked out over the city.
“I meant what I said.”
“Onstage?”
“Yes.”
“You could’ve warned me.”
“I didn’t plan it.”
“Right.”
“I saw you sitting there, and it felt wrong not to acknowledge you.”
Beca laughed once without humor.
“You acknowledged me while accepting an award for an album someone else produced.”
Vivienne winced.
“I didn’t think of it that way.”
“No. You usually don’t.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Probably not.”
Silence stretched between them.
Vivienne wrapped her arms around herself.
“Are you happy?” she asked.
Beca glanced at her.
“With Chloe.”
There was no safe answer.
Beca looked through the terrace doors.
Chloe stood just inside the ballroom speaking to a group of people. Even from a distance, Beca could see that she was only half engaged.
Watching.
Waiting.
Beca turned back to Vivienne.
“I met her tonight.”
Vivienne stared.
“What?”
“In the bathroom.”
Vivienne’s mouth opened.
Beca continued.
“I told you I was bringing someone because I was being an idiot. I didn’t have a date. Chloe found me hiding in a stall and offered to help.”
Vivienne blinked several times.
Then, unexpectedly, she laughed.
Beca frowned.
“It’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“Everyone is enjoying this too much.”
Vivienne’s laughter faded.
“So, you’re not together.”
“No.”
Beca looked through the doors again.
Chloe had excused herself from the group.
She stood alone now.
Still waiting.
Vivienne followed Beca’s gaze.
“But you want to be,” she said.
Beca turned sharply.
“What?”
Vivienne gave her a sad, knowing smile.
“You look at her the way you used to look at a new song.”
“That is an insane sentence.”
“You forget I was married to you.”
“I’m not… We’ve known each other for an hour.”
“You produced my first hit in three days.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
Beca glared at her.
Vivienne’s expression softened.
“I’m not trying to upset you.”
“You came out here to ask if I was happy.”
“I came out here because I thought you had moved on, and I needed to know how that made me feel.”
Beca went still.
Vivienne looked down at her award, which she still held in one hand.
“I wanted the divorce,” she said. “I know that.”
“Yes.”
“I wanted to see who I was without you.”
“And?”
“I’m still figuring it out.”
Beca swallowed.
Vivienne met her eyes.
“But I don’t want you back.”
The words hurt less than Beca expected.
Perhaps because she already knew.
“Good,” Beca said. “Because I don’t want you back either.”
Vivienne’s eyes shone.
“Good.”
They stood together for another moment, two people who had once known everything about each other and now knew only where the old injuries were.
Vivienne smiled.
“Go back to your actress.”
“She’s not my actress.”
“She might be.”
“Vivienne.”
“She’s waiting for you.”
Beca glanced toward the doors again.
Chloe was gone.
Her stomach dropped.
Beca left Vivienne on the terrace without another word.
She found Chloe near the lobby, collecting a coat from an attendant.
“You’re leaving.”
Chloe turned.
“I thought you might need space.”
“You could’ve told me.”
“You were speaking with your ex-wife.”
“That doesn’t mean you disappear.”
Chloe’s expression shifted.
Beca heard her own words too late.
They sounded personal.
Demanding.
Real.
“I’m sorry,” Chloe said. “I didn’t realize you wanted me to stay.”
“I did.”
The attendant returned with Chloe’s coat.
Neither of them took it.
Beca rubbed a hand over the back of her neck.
“This is weird.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not good at this.”
“At what?”
Beca gestured helplessly between them.
Chloe looked down at the space separating them.
“You were very good in the photographs.”
“That was mostly you.”
“I had excellent material. And a fantastic scene partner.”
Beca let out a breath.
“Vivienne knows.”
“That we’re pretending?”
“Yeah.”
Chloe nodded slowly.
“I see.”
“She figured it out because I told her.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t know why I told her.”
“I think you do.”
Beca frowned.
Chloe stepped closer.
“The performance wasn’t for her anymore.”
The lobby seemed suddenly too quiet.
Beca looked at Chloe’s face.
At the careful calm there.
At the uncertainty beneath it.
“You really listened to ‘Running Home’ every day?” Beca asked.
“Yes.”
“You weren’t making that up?”
“No.”
“And you really came alone?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re really tired of pretending?”
Chloe’s eyes held hers.
“Yes.”
Beca nodded once.
“Okay.”
“Okay what?”
Beca looked toward the entrance.
“Let’s leave.”
Chloe blinked.
“The ceremony isn’t over.”
“I hate ceremonies.”
“I gathered.”
“There’s a diner three blocks away.”
“You’re asking me to a diner?”
“I’m offering food.”
“In exchange for pretending to be your girlfriend?”
Beca hesitated.
“No.”
Chloe’s breath caught softly.
Beca forced herself to continue.
“In exchange for maybe letting me get to know you when neither of us is pretending.”
Chloe smiled.
It started small.
Then it brightened until Beca understood, at least a little, why cameras loved her.
“I’d like that,” Chloe said.
The attendant was still holding Chloe’s coat.
Chloe took it with an apologetic thank-you.
Beca helped her into it.
The gesture was awkward. Beca caught one sleeve beneath the collar and had to fix it while Chloe tried not to laugh.
“Don’t,” Beca warned.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re laughing internally.”
“A little.”
They walked outside together.
A cluster of photographers waited near the entrance.
The moment Chloe appeared, they began calling her name.
Then they spotted Beca.
“Chloe! Beca! Are you leaving together?”
“Is this official?”
“How long have you been dating?”
“Beca, are you working on Chloe’s album?”
Beca stopped.
Chloe looked at her.
“We could go back inside,” Chloe murmured.
Beca considered the cameras.
The questions.
The rumors that would be online before they reached the diner.
Then she looked at Chloe.
“No,” Beca said.
She held out her hand.
Chloe’s expression softened.
She took it.
They walked down the steps together as the cameras flashed.
At the curb, Chloe leaned closer.
“You know,” she said, “after tonight, people are going to think this is real.”
Beca looked at their joined hands.
Then at Chloe.
“Maybe they’ll be early.”
Chloe’s lips parted.
For once, the famous actress appeared to have no response.
Beca smiled.
It felt unexpectedly easy.
They made it half a block before Chloe spoke again.
“Just so we’re clear, I’m ordering fries. And you're paying. With your whole sixty-five bucks.”
“You’re wearing a designer gown. And I figured.”
“I can eat fries in a designer gown.”
“That seems dangerous.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“And ketchup stains.”
Chloe bumped her shoulder against Beca’s.
Beca bumped back.
Behind them, the gala continued without them.
Ahead, the diner’s neon sign glowed red against the dark.
They walked toward it hand in hand, no longer entirely sure where the pretending had ended.
Neither of them seemed particularly interested in finding out.