Page 21 of Flipping the Script
"Quinn! Solen! Over here!" Diego Santos Rivera approached them with his recording equipment and that professional smile that had grace-noted a dozen entertainment shows. "Mind if we chat for a few minutes?"
"Of course," Solen said, and Quinn watched her face transform as she shifted into interview mode—still genuine, but polished in a way that reminded Quinn that Solen was, above all else, a tremendously skilled performer.
"So tell me, how did you two actually meet? I know it was through this project, but what was that first moment like?"
Solen launched into their prepared story about the script read-through, her voice warm with manufactured nostalgia. But when she described Quinn's passion for the material, something authentic crept into her tone that made Quinn's breath catch.
"Quinn," Diego turned to her with practiced ease, "what would you say you love most about Solen?"
The prepared answer sat ready on Quinn's tongue. Creative instincts. Unexpected depth. Safe, professional, completely true in a limited way.
"She sees possibilities I never considered," Quinn heard herself saying instead. "I write these carefully structured scenes, and Solen finds the spaces between the words where real life happens. She makes everything more honest."
Solen's eyes widened slightly, a flush rising across her cheeks that had nothing to do with the camera lights. The answer had surprised them both—not because it was untrue, but because it was more honest than their situation was supposed to require.
"That's beautiful," Diego said, and Quinn could tell he meant it. "And Solen, how does it feel being with someone who appreciates your creative process?"
"Like coming home," Solen said simply, her eyes still on Quinn. "Like finding someone who understands that love and art both require risk."
The photographer materialized beside them before Quinn could fully process the implications of Solen's words. Carmen, Quinn remembered from their prep materials. Known for capturing authentic moments rather than posed perfection.
"Ladies, can you give me 'the look'? You know, like you're completely in love?"
Quinn's analytical mind catalogued the absurdity of it—being asked to perform love under blazing lights while hundreds of people watched. But when she turned to meet Solen's gaze, the absurdity dissolved into something much more dangerous.
Solen's expression held none of the polished performance Quinn had expected. Instead, there was something vulnerable and questioning, as if she was seeing Quinn clearly for the first time. Her eyes, warm brown under the lights, seemed to be asking a question Quinn wasn't sure she was ready to answer.
The camera clicks faded into background noise. Quinn felt her breath catch as Solen's thumb traced across her hand—a gesture too small for the photographers to capture but intimate enough to make Quinn's carefully maintained composure crack around the edges.
"Perfect," Carmen called, but Quinn barely heard her.
Because Solen was looking at her like Quinn was the only person in a crowd of hundreds, and the terrifying part was how natural it felt to look back the same way.
They finished the red carpet circuit in a haze of practiced smiles and coordinated movements, but Quinn's attention kept drifting to the way Solen's hand felt in hers, the way their rhythm had evolved beyond anything they'd rehearsed.
In the theater lobby, Quinn caught fragments of conversation from industry executives. "Natural chemistry." "Couldn't have cast it better." "Look at those engagement metrics already."
Her phone buzzed with notifications—their photos trending on three different platforms, fan accounts analyzing their body language, entertainment blogs speculating about wedding timelines.
Quinn found a relatively quiet corner near the theater bar and pulled out her leather notebook, the familiar weight grounding her racing thoughts.
"Note," she wrote carefully: "When Solen looks at me like that, I forget we're performing. This should terrify me, but instead it feels like the most honest moment I've had in years. Need to analyze why authenticity feels more frightening than any amount of pretense."
She paused, pen hovering over the page, then added: "Also note: six weeks ago, I thought love was just excellent character development. Beginning to suspect I may have fundamentally misunderstood the assignment."
10
MORNING AFTER
Sunlight filtered through unfamiliar blinds, casting geometric patterns across cream-colored walls that definitely weren't Solen's. She blinked awake in Quinn's guest room, momentarily disoriented by the pristine surroundings—matching nightstand, carefully arranged throw pillows, not a single item out of place. Even Quinn's guest space felt curated.
Her phone buzzed insistently from the nightstand. Then again. And again.
"What the hell?" She grabbed the device, squinting at the screen. Seventeen missed calls. Forty-three text messages. Her Instagram notifications had maxed out at ninety-nine-plus.
The first text from her agent made her sit up straighter: *Holy shit, Solen. You two are EVERYWHERE. Call me.*
She scrolled through message after message—friends, colleagues, her old foster sister in Portland, even her barista from that coffee shop in Silver Lake. Everyone had seen something. Her thumb hesitated over a notification from Tasha before swiping it away without reading.
