Page 1 of PR Stunt

Chapter 1

Tears blur my vision.

Not delicate ones. The kind that fall heavy, warm against my skin, clinging to my jaw before they drop.

“Just don’t pretend this is for my benefit,” I say, my voice breaking.

The camera pushes closer. The downtown Toronto skyline glints behind us, steel and glass towering over the staged heartbreak unfolding on the sidewalk.

Across from me, my co-star looks wrecked, guilt settling onto his shoulders. I let the silence stretch. Let the hurt bloom in my chest as if it belongs there.

It’s funny. We can build empires, win cases, run companies, and still fall apart over someone who didn’t choose us.

The audience loves it.

“And cut! Nice one, Charlie. Checking that,” the director calls.

The crew breaks into applause.

“Okay, guys, moving on—that’s a show wrap on Charlie!” the first a.d. calls from behind the monitors.

More applause. Someone whistles.

“And don’t forget to grab an açaí bowl from the food truck Charlie brought in!”

I let out a small, shaky laugh, still sniffling as I step off my mark. My fingers sweep beneath my eyes, brushing away the last of the tears as I swallow the lump in my throat and steady my breathing. Sound moves in first, unclipping my mic with practiced ease. Props follows, gently collecting the final scene’s accessories—a leather bag and a watch scripted as a family heirloom.

“Seriously, you guys are the best,” I say, smiling at the semicircle of tired faces. “Thank you for making this so easy.”

These past few months filming Hearsay, a feature about an all-female law firm set to release next fall, flew by in a blur of fourteen-hour days and takeout dinners eaten under fluorescent lights. A story about ambition and power, about women who command a courtroom and still find themselves crying over men anyway.

Crew members call out their goodbyes as I walk through set for the last time. I wave, memorizing the rhythm of it. The organized chaos. The comfort of knowing exactly what’s expected of me.

A black suv waits just beyond the lot, a familiar sight after so many early mornings and late-night shoots. The driver is already standing beside it, door open, nodding when he sees me.

Across the sidewalk, a few fans and paparazzi have gathered behind the security barricade, phones raised, calling out:

“Charlie! Charlie!”

“Charlie, can I get a picture?”

“Any new romantic interests?”

I wave and walk over with a smile. “Hi, you guys.”

A young woman thrusts out a magazine. It’s my face on the glossy Vogue cover, golden waves framing my cheeks, hazel eyes looking straight into the lens.

“Would you mind signing?”

“Of course not.” I take the Sharpie, scribble my name, and hand it back with a grin.

Then I slip into the shuttle and close the door behind me, leaving set for the last time as a hotshot attorney.

Fifteen minutes later, the shuttle pulls into basecamp. I step into my trailer, kick off my heels, and flop onto the couch, landing on my back.

Buzz buzz.

Ignoring my phone behind me on the table, I close my eyes for a second and wince as I roll my ankles. Mental note: tell Anna my next project better involve spicy margaritas and flip-flops.