Page 5 of Flipping the Script
"Your recent publicity challenges have created complications for the Quinn Virelle project." Iris spoke with clinical precision, like a surgeon explaining a necessary procedure. "The studio is concerned about associating with your current... narrative. Meanwhile, Quinn's previous projects have underperformed commercially, making her reputation for difficulty somewhat problematic for a romantic comedy that needs broad appeal."
"So we're both professional poison right now."
"You're both talented women whose careers have hit temporary obstacles that require strategic management." Iris pulled an iPad from her handbag, swiping to what looked like a presentation. "I specialize in transforming obstacles into opportunities."
Solen felt her stomach tighten with the familiar sensation that preceded life-altering conversations. She'd learned to recognize the feeling in foster care, when social workers arrived with that particular blend of sympathy and determination that meant everything was about to change again. "What kind of opportunities?"
Iris turned the tablet toward her, revealing what looked like a comprehensive battle plan complete with timelines, media strategies, and photo mockups. "A coordinated campaign designed to rehabilitate both your images while generating significant buzz for the project. Think of it as elaborate performance art with very real consequences."
The presentation was impressive in its thoroughness, covering everything from social media management to strategic public appearances. But something about the photo mockups made Solen's chest tighten—images of her and Quinn at various events, looking like the kind of couple that graced magazine covers and inspired fan fiction.
"You want us to fake date." The words came out flatter than she'd intended.
"I want you to save your careers." Iris's tone sharpened slightly. "Both of you are one more failure away from being relegated to indie films and guest television spots. This project could change that trajectory, but only if audiences are invested in your story both on and off screen."
Solen stood and began pacing the small space between her couch and kitchen, her bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. The compass necklace felt heavier with each step, weighted down by the magnitude of what Iris was suggesting. "And Quinn's on board with this plan?"
"Quinn is... being briefed separately. Her challenges require a different approach than yours." Iris swiped to another screen, this one showing social media analytics that made Solen's stomach drop. Charts and graphs documented her reputation's free fall with mathematical precision, red lines trending downward like a stock market crash. "These numbers represent eighteen months of lost opportunities, Solen. Roles you won't be offered, meetings that won't be scheduled, projects that will move forward without you."
The data was brutal in its clarity. Her follower count hemorrhaging daily, engagement rates plummeting, brand partnerships quietly disappearing. Tasha's betrayal hadn't just hurt personally—it had been a strategic assassination of everything she'd worked to build.
"How long would this... performance... need to last?" Solen's voice came out smaller than she'd intended.
"Six weeks. Through the awards season circuit, culminating with the Golden Horizon Awards where you'll either announce an amicable mutual decision to focus on your careers, or..." Iris paused meaningfully. "You'll discover that the performance has become something more authentic."
The suggestion hung in the air between them, loaded with implications that made Solen's cheeks warm. The idea of genuinely connecting with someone like Quinn Virelle—rigid, controlling, everything Solen typically ran from—seemed as likely as winning the lottery. But then again, she'd never been great at predicting her own heart.
Solen sank back onto the couch, the weight of her situation settling over her like a heavy blanket. "What if we can't stand each other? What if she takes one look at me and decides she'd rather tank her own career than pretend to like mine?"
"Then you'll both learn to be very good actors very quickly." Iris's expression softened slightly. "Solen, I've been doing this for twenty years. I've seen careers destroyed by much smaller scandals, and I've seen careers saved by much more desperate measures. This plan works because it gives both of you what you need—Quinn gets commercial appeal and proof she can collaborate, you get reputation rehabilitation and a showcase for your dramatic range."
"And if it doesn't work?"
"Then you'll both be exactly where you are now, except you'll have given an award-worthy performance and reminded the industry why you're worth watching." Iris stood, smoothing her blazer. "I'm scheduling a meeting for tomorrow at two. The Meridian Hotel, penthouse suite. Consider it a chemistry test."
After Iris left, Solen found herself staring at Quinn's photo again, trying to imagine those sharp green eyes looking at her with anything resembling affection instead of the barely concealed horror she was expecting. The whole plan felt like an elaborate form of professional suicide—what happened when you put two people together who represented everything the other feared about losing themselves?
But as she scrolled through another wave of comments questioning her professionalism, her talent, her right to exist inthe industry she'd fought so hard to enter, Solen realized she was out of alternatives. Foster care had taught her that sometimes survival meant adapting to impossible circumstances, and right now Quinn Virelle represented her best shot at a future that didn't involve waiting tables between community theater gigs.
She touched her compass necklace one more time, feeling the familiar weight of uncertainty. Mrs. Rodriguez had meant it as comfort, this tool for finding direction when everything felt lost. But compasses only worked if you had some idea where you wanted to go, and right now Solen felt like she was spinning in place, desperate for any true north that would lead her home.
Tomorrow she'd meet Quinn Virelle and discover whether they could create something authentic out of complete artifice. Tonight, she'd practice pretending that the part of her that craved genuine connection wasn't already terrified of what might happen if the performance became too real.
3
THE MATHEMATICS OF DESPERATION
Quinn arrived at The Meridian Hotel's private dining room fifteen minutes early, which was actually five minutes later than her usual twenty-minute buffer but traffic had conspired against her color-coded schedule. Her leather-bound notebook lay open beside her sparkling water, filled with fresh ink detailing "damage control strategies" and what she'd privately termed "career mathematics"—a series of increasingly desperate calculations about her remaining industry viability.
The private dining room's floor-to-ceiling windows offered a stunning view of the city, but Quinn kept her wire-rimmed glasses focused on her handwritten notes. She'd spent the morning researching crisis management techniques and publicity timelines, approaching this meeting like she approached everything else: with thorough preparation and the naive hope that enough planning could control any outcome.
Her pen moved across the notebook's cream pages in precise script: *Scenario A: Collaboration succeeds despite personality conflicts. Probability: 23%. Scenario B: Public disaster requiring geographic relocation. Probability: 67%. Scenario C:* Shepaused, pen hovering over the page, unable to calculate her way out of the growing certainty that her career was circling the drain regardless of mathematical intervention.
The dining room door opened with the kind of confidence that announced important people making important entrances. Iris Delacroix swept in wearing a tailored charcoal suit that probably cost more than Quinn's monthly rent, her silver-streaked black hair perfectly arranged despite the December wind outside. She carried a sleek tablet and the expression of someone who owned not just this room but potentially this entire building.
"Quinn." Iris's voice held the warmth of expensive wine and twenty years of navigating Hollywood's most treacherous waters. "Thank you for agreeing to this meeting."
"I haven't agreed to anything yet." Quinn closed her notebook protectively. "I'm here for information."
