Page 82 of Burn the Script
The smile on Phoebe’s mouth tightens. Whatever game she’s playing, she already lost. “They have a long history, but they’re just friends. And I hope her fans will support Graham’s decision to move on. He’s the best person I know. Doesn’t he also deserve to finally be happy?”
“Finally?” I ask. My mind is reeling as I look to Maisy for answers. “Why is she doing this? I haven’t talked to her in months.”
I can’t wrap my head around why someone would tell bogus lies and risk invoking the wrath of Tatum a.k.a. Makenzie’s fanbase. Her fans don’t play when it comes to defending her. For Phoebe to imply we had some sort of affair—that I cheated on Makenzie—she’ll drive her reputation into the gutter and take mine along with it.
“She’s riding the gossip wave to stay relevant. Fucking grifter,” Maisy mumbles as she ends the video.
I’ve seen enough anyway. Wiggling my mouse, I wake up the now sleeping laptop because this situation warrants a video call. Jonathan’s room is dark when he answers, dressed in pajamas. I’ve made a habit of catching him at inconvenient times these days.
“Graham, I’m already on it,” he says.
“What the hell is happening, Jonathan?”
“Phoebe went rogue, decided to generate buzz for herself. Her agent isn’t happy. He asked for our help, but I told him to let the chatter play out. No one’s buying it. The story will be ashes in a few days.”
“She’s damaging her credibility.”
Pot, meet kettle, I think to myself. When Miguel and I reveal our relationship, I’ll be the one trying to save face after lying to the entire film industry. Hell, the entire world.
Jonathan lets out an exasperated sigh. “My guess is she took a play from your playbook without knowing the rules.”
The rules are simple. Two parties and their reps agree to a publicity stunt. That’s how it works. Phoebe’s star was slow to rise before our movie was released, but she’s been acting for years. She knows the deal.
I rake a hand through my hair to brush it out of my eyes. “Do I need to make a statement?”
“No.” His stern tone leaves no room for argument. “Keep quiet and stay offline. It’s nasty out there.”
He disconnects the call, but my ears are ringing. In fact, all my senses are setting off warning bells. I look at Maisy again. Her tightly pursed lips match her pinched scowl. She understands the ramifications of Phoebe’s lies and what’s at stake for me. Also, she hates when people mess with her friends.
“When did that interview air?” I ask.
“An hour ago.”
I’m on my feet, rushing for the backpack I tossed in a swivel chair. My impatience and frustration skyrocket as I empty all the pockets. “Where’s my fucking phone?”
“It’s next to your laptop.”
I’ll apologize later for glaring at Maisy like she’s to blame for my absent mind and poor organizational skills. I bring the phone to my ear and wait. At least it rings before going to voicemail. There’s some relief in knowing Miguel hasn’t blocked me again.
Me
You saw the interview.
My Darling
Yes.
Me
That wasn’t planned. I would’ve told you if I knew it was coming.
My Darling
I believe you.
Me
Then why won’t you answer the phone?
