Page 30 of Flipping the Script
"No, they're not." Quinn set the phone aside but didn't move away. "Which brings up some rather complicated questions about our remaining appearances."
"Such as?"
"Such as how we navigate genuine feelings within a professional arrangement designed to simulate them." Quinn'swords came out more clinical than intended, but she saw understanding rather than hurt flash across Solen's features.
"We figure it out as we go." Solen's answer was characteristically spontaneous, but it carried a note of determination that made Quinn's chest warm. "We set boundaries that honor both what's happening between us and what we've committed to professionally."
"That's not very specific."
"Since when is love specific?" Solen's smile returned, soft and patient. "Besides, you're the one who just told me the best stories require improvisation."
Quinn felt her lips curve upward despite her attempts at maintaining analytical distance. "I'm going to regret giving you that ammunition, aren't I?"
"Oh, absolutely." Solen's grin turned playful. "I plan to quote you extensively."
They talked until the sky began lightening behind the city's jagged skyline, mapping the territory between professional obligation and personal desire with the care of explorers charting unknown lands. Quinn found herself describing fears she'd never articulated—the terror of losing control, the certainty that vulnerability would be weaponized against her, the way Solen's presence had made her question everything she thought she knew about herself.
Solen matched her honesty with stories of foster care survival tactics, of learning to read people's needs and perform accordingly, of the way Quinn's steadiness had made her feel valued for who she was rather than what she could provide. They established tentative boundaries around their remaining public appearances, acknowledging that their final week of events would now carry the weight of authentic emotion rather than carefully constructed fiction.
"So we're doing this?" Quinn asked as the first commuter traffic began threading through the streets below. "We're attempting to navigate a real relationship within the framework of a fake one?"
"We're certainly going to try." Solen stretched like a cat, graceful even in exhaustion. "Though I suspect it's going to be significantly more complicated than anything in your original script."
Quinn considered this, watching dawn paint the sky in shades of pink and gold that no cinematographer could improve upon. "Maybe. But I'm beginning to think the complications might be worth it."
"Careful, Quinn Virelle." Solen's voice carried fond amusement. "You're starting to sound like someone who enjoys a little chaos in her life."
"Former cynic, remember?" Quinn stood and extended her hand to help Solen up. "Present company continues to be unexpectedly persuasive."
Solen accepted the assistance but didn't immediately move toward the penthouse doors. Instead, she stepped closer, close enough that Quinn could see the exhaustion and exhilaration warring in her expression.
"For the record," Solen said softly, "when we do finally kiss—and we will—I want it to be because we choose to, not because we're supposed to for an audience."
Quinn's heart performed an elaborate percussion solo against her ribs. "That's very reasonable."
"I have my moments."
"Yes," Quinn agreed, still holding Solen's hand as they moved toward the doors. "You definitely do."
14
NEW WAVE
The morning light streaming through Quinn's living room windows felt harsh against Solen's swollen eyes. She'd barely moved from the couch since Quinn brought her home the night before, still wearing yesterday's wrinkled dress, her phone clutched in trembling fingers as she watched her life dissected by strangers.
Another notification. Another screenshot of Tasha's Instagram Live session making the rounds on Twitter, complete with commentary from people who thought they understood her entire relationship history based on twenty minutes of calculated cruelty.
"She's obviously using Quinn for career rehab."
"The fake crying was SO obvious."
"Tasha dodged a bullet with this one."
Quinn's bare feet whispered across the hardwood as she emerged from the kitchen, two steaming mugs balanced in her hands. Steam curled between them, carrying the rich scent of the good coffee—not Quinn's usual efficient instant, but something that required actual care to prepare.
"You made real coffee." Solen's voice came out rougher than she'd expected.
"Seemed like a real coffee kind of morning." Quinn settled beside her, close enough that their knees almost touched. The couch dipped under her weight, tilting Solen slightly toward her. "Though I should warn you, my coffee-making skills are purely theoretical."
