Chapter 7
The morning sun poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Aubrey's Brooklyn apartment, but the light did nothing to warm the cold, empty space.
Aubrey sat on the beige leather sofa, wearing an oversized grey sweatshirt and sweatpants. Her right ankle was propped up on a pillow, wrapped tightly in a thick ice pack.
Her agent, Brenda Garrett, paced back and forth across the hardwood floor, the sharp clicking of her heels echoing in the quiet room.
Brenda stared at her iPad, her brow furrowed in deep frustration.
"The producers just sent an email," Brenda said, her words coming out like rapid fire. "They fired Skylar. The second female lead is gone. Some nepo-baby just bought her way into the cast."
Aubrey closed her eyes and let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Let me guess. Tatum Holder."
Brenda stopped pacing. She stared at Aubrey in shock. "How did you know? Aubrey, this is bad. If the Holders are pumping money into the show, they're going to make your life a living hell on set."
Aubrey opened her eyes. The exhaustion was gone, replaced by a sharp, icy resolve. "Let them try. I'm not running anymore."
Before Brenda could reply, the cell phone sitting on the glass coffee table vibrated violently.
The screen lit up with a text message from an unknown Beverly Hills number: 'Aubrey, it's Johnston Holder. Please, I need to hear your voice.' A second later, the same number began to call. Her stomach plummeted into a bottomless abyss. A cold, sickening sweat broke out across her collarbone.
"Do you want me to handle it?" Brenda asked gently, noticing the sudden lack of color in Aubrey's face. "I can block the spam."
Aubrey shook her head. She reached out and hit the red decline button.
Three seconds later, the phone vibrated again. The same number. Relentless.
Aubrey took a deep, shaky breath. She swiped the green button and brought the phone to her ear.
"Aubrey?"
The voice was older, raspy, and heavy with pathetic guilt. Johnston Holder.
The second she heard his voice, the memory slammed into her brain. Her mother, Lillian, lying on the cheap mattress, coughing up dark red blood, begging for a man who never came.
Aubrey's breathing turned shallow. Her knuckles turned bone-white as she gripped the phone.
"I heard about your foot," Johnston stammered, his voice breaking. "I want to fly to New York. I want to see you."
"Don't." Aubrey's voice was a dead, freezing monotone. "Your daughter Kloe was thrown out of a party last night. Go play the concerned father with her. Not me."
"Aubrey, please," Johnston sobbed through the speaker. "I didn't know what Cheryle was doing back then. I swear to God, I didn't mean to abandon you and your mother."
Aubrey let out a harsh, mocking laugh. It scraped against her throat.
"Late affection is cheaper than dirt, Mr. Holder," Aubrey spat out, her words dripping with pure hatred. "If you actually feel guilty, do me a favor. Take your wife, and go straight to hell."
She didn't wait for his response. She pulled the phone away, hit end, and immediately blocked the number.
The adrenaline crashed. Aubrey slumped back against the sofa cushions, completely drained. Her hands were shaking so badly she had to hide them under her sleeves.
Brenda stood perfectly still. She hadn't heard the other side of the call, but the raw, suffocating despair radiating from Aubrey was terrifying.
Brenda walked into the kitchen, poured a glass of warm water, and placed it in Aubrey's trembling hands.
"I talked to the director," Brenda said softly, changing the subject. "You have a week of paid sick leave. Just rest."
Aubrey gripped the warm glass, the heat grounding her. She forced a pale, exhausted smile. "Thank you, Brenda."
The sharp, sudden chime of the apartment doorbell shattered the heavy silence.
Brenda walked over to the intercom screen by the door. She checked the camera and looked back at Aubrey.
"It's Beatrice Vance," Brenda said.
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