Page 32 of Flipping the Script
They'd fallen into comfortable work rhythm when the pizza arrived, spreading boxes across script pages and arguing good-naturedly about whether the romantic lead would realistically own a dog. Quinn argued for character consistency; Solen insisted dogs made everyone more sympathetic on screen.
"Besides," Solen said around a bite of pizza, "the dog could be a rescue. Matches her commitment issues—she saves something that needs healing while avoiding anything too emotionally demanding."
Quinn paused, pen hovering over the script. "That's... actually brilliant character development."
"I have my moments."
"You have a lot of moments." Quinn's voice carried something warmer than professional appreciation. "I was wrong about your script suggestions being random. You see character psychology in ways I miss."
Evening settled around them in golden gradients, Quinn's usually pristine space transformed by scattered takeout containers, script pages, and Solen's belongings claiming spaceon every surface. The organized chaos would have horrified Quinn weeks ago; now it felt like watching her apartment exhale after holding its breath for years.
"Tell me about the compass," Quinn said as they cleaned up, nodding toward the necklace Solen touched whenever anxiety spiked.
Solen's hand moved to the brass circle automatically. "Last gift from my first foster mother. Margaret. I was twelve, aging out of her placement because she could only take short-term kids." The memory still carried edges sharp enough to cut. "She said everyone needs something to help them find their true north."
"Did you think she was right?"
"I thought true north was a fantasy." Solen settled back on the couch, closer to Quinn this time, drawn by the steady warmth she radiated. "In foster care, you learn that home is temporary. People leave, get reassigned, decide you're too difficult. So you stop looking for permanent belonging and start looking for temporary safety instead."
Quinn's hand found hers again, fingers interlacing with shocking naturalness. "What changed?"
"You." The word emerged without permission, carrying more truth than Solen had planned to reveal. "This morning, when you offered to withdraw from our publicity schedule to protect my mental health, I realized I've been looking for stability in all the wrong places."
Quinn's breath caught, barely audible.
"I've spent years choosing people who couldn't fully commit because their emotional unavailability felt familiar. Safe. I knew how to love someone who was already leaving." Solen turned Quinn's hand over, studying the precise lines of her palm. "But you're not leaving. Even when staying means risking your career, your project, everything you've worked toward."
"Solen—"
"I'm terrified," Solen continued, needing to finish before courage abandoned her. "Everything in my history tells me that staying means eventual abandonment. That if I let myself depend on your steadiness, you'll decide I'm too much trouble and disappear."
Quinn shifted to face her fully, their knees bumping together. "I'm terrified too. Every relationship I've had ended because I couldn't relinquish enough control to let someone really know me. I thought vulnerability meant weakness until you showed me it could mean connection instead."
The apartment fell quiet except for the distant hum of traffic and their synchronized breathing. Solen could feel the moment balancing on a knife's edge—they could retreat to safer topics, or they could step into the terrifying space where honesty lived.
"I want to try," Solen whispered. "Not the performance version we've been doing for cameras, but the real thing. Even though it scares me more than any scandal or public humiliation."
"The real thing," Quinn repeated, testing the words.
"I want to choose you. Choose us. Choose staying instead of running when emotions get intense." Solen's thumb traced across Quinn's knuckles. "I know our timing is complicated with contracts and publicity schedules, but?—"
Quinn's kiss cut off her words, soft and certain and tasting like coffee and possibility. When they broke apart, foreheads touching, Solen felt her internal compass finally settle on something that felt like true north.
"We'll figure out the complicated parts," Quinn murmured against her lips. "Together."
15
BUILDING THE CASE
The laptop screen glowed in the early morning light streaming through Quinn's apartment windows, casting harsh shadows across the dining table she'd converted into a war room. Empty coffee cups and crumpled papers surrounded her like evidence of a long siege, which wasn't far from the truth. She'd been awake since four AM, systematically documenting every piece of Tasha's digital trail with the methodical precision that had once made her professors call her "relentlessly thorough."
Now that analytical fury finally had a productive outlet. It wasn't the carefully constructed plan she was used to, the kind that offered the illusion of control. This was messier, driven by something Solen had ignited in her – a fierce protectiveness, a willingness to fight for what mattered, even when the outcome was uncertain. The fear was still there, a familiar hum beneath her skin, but now, for the first time, it felt less like a cage and more like fuel. The laptop screen glowed in the early morning light streaming through Quinn's apartment windows, casting harsh shadows across the dining table she'd converted into a warroom. Empty coffee cups and crumpled papers surrounded her like evidence of a long siege, which wasn't far from the truth.
Quinn paused, her gaze falling on a printed screenshot of one of Tasha's earlier, seemingly innocuous social media posts. It was from years ago, a smiling photo of Tasha and Solen at an industry event, all air kisses and performative friendship. Solen had once mentioned,"Tasha always wanted what I had. Not just the roles, but... the ease? The way I didn't seem to care what people thought." She remembered Solen describing Tasha's relentless ambition, a hunger that bordered on desperation, fueled by a deep-seated insecurity that she masked with a brittle, competitive facade. There had been a specific incident, a betrayed confidence about a project, a role Tasha felt entitled to but Solen had landed.
She remembered Solen recounting a seemingly casual encounter, Tasha cornering a mutual acquaintance at a premiere. "Isn't it justfascinating," Tasha had purred, "how Solen always seems to land on her feet? Especially with that new project... such auniqueapproach to casting, wouldn't you agree?" The words themselves were harmless, but the brittle smile, the pointed gaze, the subtle emphasis on "unique approach"—it was a veiled accusation, a poisoned seed planted in fertile ground.
It wasn't just professional rivalry; it was personal, a score Tasha had been waiting years to settle, meticulously collecting slights and perceived betrayals like ammunition. This wasn't a sudden outburst of jealousy; it was a calculated, long-simulating vendetta, finally unleashed.
