Chapter 1
HALLIE
I rush down the sidewalk, clutching my bag and tucking away a few loose strands of hair that won’t stay in place. I’m late, mostly because I spent the last hour deciding whether I would even be able to leave the hotel room. Somehow, I managed to convince myself that this meeting wouldn’t be as bad as I knew it was going to be, so I put on my shoes and walked out the door. I’m definitely reconsidering that particular life decision right now.
I check the address again on my phone, and sighing, I glance up at the cool gray façade and the unmistakable gold-plated sign that reads FFG Studios. I need to fortify myself, so I look down to see the flash of a diamond catch the light. This is for him. It’s what he wanted. I have to keep reminding myself of that fact over and over again, because what I really want to do is jump in a cab, hop a plane home, and leave New York in my rearview mirror forever.
After taking a deep breath, I open the door and find myself in the midst of a movie set version of an office. People bustle back and forth, carrying large envelopes and shiny mobile devices. I hurry over to the desk, where an impossibly beautiful girl with black hair greets me with a slightly imperious look.
“Can I help you?”
“I have a meeting at noon with Mr. Rivers.”
“Name, please.”
“It’s probably under Hallie Caldwell.”
She checks her computer before giving me a friendly smile. “Right away, Miss Caldwell. I’ll tell him that you’re here, and he should be down shortly. Is there anything that I can get for you while you’re waiting? A latte, perhaps?”
“No, I’m fine. Thank you very much.”
I take a seat on one of the black leather sofas in the corner of the lobby. The sick feeling of dread that has weighed on me ever since I got off the plane is heavy now, weaving my stomach into a thousand little butterfly knots. I twist the ring around my finger in endless circles until my skin starts to feel raw.
“The elusive Miss Caldwell,” a booming voice announces.
I look up to see a bear of a man hulking into the lobby, clearly making a beeline for me. I stand up, too quickly, so much so that I stumble over my own feet. Stupid heels.
“Mr. Rivers, I presume. Hello. I’m Hallie Caldwell.”
I’m trying to sound professional, but my voice and hands and body are all trembling uncontrollably. He doesn’t seem to notice and instead takes both of my hands into one of his enormous ones.
“Please. It’s Jeff. I’m head of production for FFG Studios. It’s nice to meet you in the flesh.” He chuckles to himself, his tongue running over his lips as he eyes me with appreciation. “And what a piece of flesh it is, if I may say so.”
So. Gross.
I think I manage to give him my best attempt at a cordial smile.
As we make our way across the lobby, his other hand curls into the small of my back. Our bodies are so close together that the warmth of his skin is radiating heat against mine. I consider using some of my best self-defense moves, but I ultimately decide against it. That would only prolong the meeting. Besides, filing a police report would be a huge hassle.
“Come this way, Hallie. I can call you Hallie, right?”
That doesn’t even elicit a response from me. Shaking his head, he ushers me into an elevator and presses 4. His hand stays firmly placed on my back, even though I try to twist away.
“How’s your trip to New York? The hotel treating you all right? If there’s anything you need, just let me know and I’ll put someone on it. How long are you here for?”
His questions all run together, like he’s used to doing the talking and not so much used to asking. He continues, undaunted by my lack of response, whispering conspiratorially into my ear, “I’m not supposed to tell you this, but we love the script. We’re willing to sell our souls to get it.”
My lips curl involuntarily into a smile. “You were definitely not supposed to tell me that.”
“She speaks! You should keep doing that, honey. It looks good on you.”
I try to smile, but I’m pretty sure my face betrays my total disgust. He shakes his head and clucks his tongue as the elevator doors open.
Thank god. Ben’s agent (my agent—I correct myself) is sitting in a chair outside of a glossy conference room that’s decked out in rich mahogany. I manage to extract myself from Jeff’s grip and I rush towards her. Her face lights up when she sees me; she knew my trepidations about this silly meeting and probably figured I wouldn’t show up.
Jeff gives her a long, lecherous look up and down before turning his attention back to me. “You two probably need a minute to talk. But don’t take too long. I’m not used to being kept waiting.” The flash of his smile reveals even rows of too-white teeth.
Again. So gross.
I shake it off and turn to Eva, who wraps me in a tight embrace.
“Hallie.”
“You clean up well,” I say, eyeing the red suit and elegant chignon.
She means business, then. She looks nothing like the woman in blue jeans and a ratty sweatshirt who sat for long hours with us on our porch, talking about characterization and prose and the need for more action and less talking.
That was three years ago, I realize suddenly. It feels like yesterday and a lifetime ago at the same time.
“How are you holding up?” she whispers, putting a strong arm around my shoulders.
“I’ll be fine.” It’s true. I will be fine, just as soon as I can get out of this hellhole.
“Look, I’m going to play hardball a bit in there. FFG wants this screenplay so badly that they’re practically salivating for it. This, my dear, is because they know it’s going to be the next blockbuster. They would be fools to let us walk out of the door without locking you down for the whole enchilada.”
She’s looking at me like she expects some kind of reaction, but I give her my best stony stare instead, which makes her laugh.
“Hallie. Do you even care about any of this?”
I don’t think she actually wants to hear my answer to that question.
Undeterred, she continues, punctuating her words with a little smirk. “Just to recap, in case you forgot the details or neglected to read any of the thousand memos that I sent you, FFG wants the rights to the first book and they want to take the screenplay as is, although they’ll probably add another writer. They’ll want to make it more commercial, to add the taglines that will be printed on the merchandise. That’s how these things are done.”
I nod, but I don’t think I’m doing a very good job of pretending to care, because Eva’s checking my face carefully, as if she wants to make sure I’m not going to crumble right in front of her. I stand up straighter and try to focus on her words.
“They want the rights to the rest of the trilogy, too, but they’ve been fuzzy on the details so far. Lightgate is offering a guarantee that they’ll make all three movies. We can meet with them tomorrow, if we’re not getting what we want here. And you know that there are other offers on the table, too.”
My eyes glaze over. “This has to be over today. No more meetings.”
She gives me a wicked little grin. “Well, maybe if my favorite client even tried to look at any of the contracts I send over, she would have some idea of which deal she actually wanted. Maybe then, we wouldn’t have to schedule so many meetings.”
I frown. She raises her eyebrows. This is an old dance between the two of us. And probably a good illustration of why you shouldn’t do business with friends.
“I do read the contracts,” I say, a little too defensively. Kind of. I definitely took a good look at the cover of the last one. Right before I threw it into the trash can.
“Sure.” She’s still skeptical, so I give her my best innocent face, which elicits a small grin. “We’re talking millions and millions of dollars, Hal. Maybe more than that, if we play our cards right. It’s wise to make sure that we’ve considered all of the options.”
“I know, Eva. And I’m grateful for your help. I really am. I just hate New York and I’m being a giant baby about this whole thing.”
“You won’t get any argument about that from me.” Still, her face softens slightly. “Did you at least manage to get a decent meal last night? We do have some of the best restaurants in the world, you know.”
I had ordered room service and stayed in my room with only bad reality TV for company, but I don’t tell her that. “I had some pasta with organic vegetables made on an antibiotic-free farm-raised co-op. Yum.”
Eva laughs, for real this time. “Just remember, if anyone in there asks you about hormone-free, antibiotic food, you just say you love it. It’s your favorite. Cage-free eggs, too.”
I make a face, and she sighs and loops her arm through mine as we join the stream of people piling into the room.
“Hang in there. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.”
As it turns out, Eva’s right. Almost an hour later, my head is spinning with the talk of international rights and back-end profits and three film guarantees. Rapid-fire speech is coming from all of the faces around the long table, and I can’t keep any of them straight. They’re talking about the dazzling dialogue and the potential for merchandising and action figures and all of that nonsense, but what they’re really talking about is money. I haven’t said a word.
“It’s this generation’s epic tale,” one of the suits offers finally. “The timeless story of man fighting against evil, of one poor guy just trying to make it in a world torn apart. And we’re going to make sure that millions of eyes all around the planet can’t look away.”
Eva isn’t impressed by his flattery. She holds firm. “We need three things from you to make this deal happen today. You know that we can walk out that door right now and go straight to the next meeting and get everything that we want—a three film guarantee, a piece of the back-end, and a check. A very, very large check. Lots of zeroes. We’re only here because you promised that you would make the best offer, one that involves creative control. If you can’t make that happen, this deal is over before it started.”
Eva starts to gather her things, but Jeff holds up his hand to stop her. She smirks back at him as he bends his head to converse with another man in hushed tones. Finally, he pushes a scrap of paper at Eva, who tucks it under her tablet with a smile.
“We’ll give you a minute to speak with your client. Clear the room, guys,” Jeff says.
He eyes me again before shooting me an exaggerated wink. I roll my eyes in response, but that only seems to encourage him, because he does a little stage bow before exiting the room with the rest of the suits.
Eva glances at the paper, stretches her arms contentedly, and shoves it across the table at me. I take it into my hand, but I don’t look at the numbers, because I’m not ready to look and frankly, I’m not here for the money.
“The deal is actually better than I hoped for. They’re willing to guarantee that all three of the movies will get made, and there’s a lot of money for you if any one of them falls through. Since you’re the cowriter, they’re going to give you the first stab at revising the screenplay for the first one. If that goes well, they’ll make an offer for the next two. It’s smart for them to realize that they need a feminine touch. Women drive the box office, which is something that men in Hollywood finally seem to be realizing.”
I only heard one word. “Cowriter? I never agreed to that. This was his baby, not mine.”
“The book is his, I’ll give you that much. The story is his. But this screenplay is yours, Hallie, and we both know that. And honestly, the reason that all of the studios are clamoring for this piece is the screenplay. Your voice is all over it, and you deserve credit for that.”
“I told you that I didn’t want my name on it. When, exactly, did that happen?”
“I added your name to the last revision. I didn’t tell you, because I knew you were going to get all high and mighty about it and say no. But it’s done, so there’s no use arguing about it now.”
I stand up. “I don’t want any of this.” We’ve fought about this before, and she knows how I feel. “This is for him. Not for me. It’s not mine.”
“This is for you, too,” she says in a low voice. I’m walking out the door when her next words stop me in my tracks.
“It’s got box-office gold all over it. You can go hide wherever you want, but if we don’t do this deal now, they’ll still be beating down your door—next month, next year, in ten years. It’s a great story, Hallie. A Hollywood story. All of it—not just the screenplay. And you’re stuck with it, whether you want to be or not. At least if we get it settled now, there will be some peace for you. You can finish all of this business and start to move on with your life. I know you do want that.”
She’s right, even though I don’t want to admit it. I’m exhausted and I need some measure of normalcy and that will never happen with the screenplay hanging over my head. I sit back down and open my mouth to respond, but she’s not finished.
“They also want a guarantee that you’ll do the press junket when they start filming and when it comes out in theaters.”
The thought of sitting on someone’s couch and revealing all of my dirty little secrets makes me want to throw up. But I nod. That one was always a given. I’ll deal with it later. Avoidance. It’s a good strategy.
“There’s up-front money for the production rights and there’s a nice little piece of the back-end profits on the films, increasing with each one. Here’s the number.”
She slides the piece of paper even further across the table and when I give it a cursory glance, I can’t do anything but laugh. It’s a ridiculous sum.
“This is the budget for the movie?”
“No, Hallie. That’s the amount of money that they’re going to give you for the rights to the trilogy and the first script. It doesn’t include what they’ll pay for the next scripts or the back-end, which will be significantly more than that. Lightgate’s willing to give us more up-front, but they’re not budging on the rest of your requirements, so I think we should just take this offer and be done with it.”
Hearing her tell me that this is about to be over is music to my ears, at least until I look back down again. There are so many zeroes that I can’t even begin to fathom what I could ever do with a tiny fraction of the sum.
Millions and millions of dollars. For some pieces of paper.
“Take it. I just want to get out of here.”
She jumps up and does a little victory dance, pulling me to my feet and practically lifting me from the ground with her final spin.
“Fabulous! You won’t regret this. I promise.”
I can’t quite match her enthusiasm, but the relief that all of this is about to be over has calmed my initial fears and the slight rumbling in my stomach reminds me that I haven’t eaten since the hormone-free room service fiasco. As she leaves the room to rally the troops, I glance around to see if someone had the foresight to leave some food out. I scramble hastily from my chair when I see elaborate baskets with pastries and fruit, complete with tiny jars of expensive jellies, sitting untouched along the back counter. There’s even a fancy silver urn that I’m praying contains coffee.
As Eva reaches the cluster of people standing just outside the door, I hear clapping and cheering all around. Great. My fleeting moment of solitude is about to be interrupted again.
I busy myself with the condiment packages as loud chatter about casting and location scouting fills the room as people begin to take their seats. I figure that I can spend at least five minutes figuring out which creamer I want to use. I’ve been in enough Starbucks lines to know that people are generally very indecisive with their coffee selections. At least the little packages of hazelnut and vanilla and mocha chocolate peppermint rosemary blueberry pineapple cinnamon are a good excuse to ignore the celebrations, because there’s no way in hell I’m putting that crap in my coffee. I’m pouring in a few drops of plain old cream and cursing the fact that there are no jelly-filled donut options when the air fills with an unmistakable presence that makes my spine tingle.
I grab the table for support as all of the celebrations stop precipitously.
I know what’s happened, deep in my bones.
I’m just praying that I’m wrong.
“So, where’s this Benjamin Ellison III? I need to meet the man who’s going to make me a fortune.”
Nope. Not wrong.
A drop of the creamer spills over the side of my cup. I’m frozen.
I know that voice, musical and low and laughing and teasing, better than I know my own. Hell, half of America probably knows that voice better than they know their own. Of course he was here. Of course, he had to be here.
The voices are scrambling for an explanation.
“He’s not…”
“He…”
“The cowriter…”
“She’s…”
Everyone tries to speak at once, but his voice again silences them.
“Cowriter?”
“She’s his…his…”
Eva’s searching for something to say and she’s going to pick the wrong word, the one I don’t want to hear.
“His wife,” I say. I stir the coffee again and again, watching the milky white substance instead of his face as I turn around. “Benjamin Ellison III’s wife.”