She was sitting like she'd been poured into the seat, legs crossed, posture casual, her face so absurdly perfect it made me want to toss my entire skincare routine in the bin.
I knew that face.
Everyone did.
She was the Octavia—film awards, designer perfume campaigns, the kind of actress who could cry in a close-up and make the whole cinema sob.
I'd watched her latest film three times and still hadn't forgiven her for dying beautifully in the rain.
In person, she looked even more impossibly flawless.
Like someone had photoshopped her into real life without asking the rest of us for permission.
I walked in behind Ashton, my legs moving on autopilot, and slid into the seat across from her.
She smiled.
I smiled.
It was all very polite and awkward.
I had no i
