Advika and the Hollywood Wives

by Kirthana Ramisetti

Genres: Marriage & Divorce; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

From the author of Dava Shastri's Last Day comes a gripping tale of marriage, scandal, fame, and identity as a woman grapples with life as the new wife of a renowned Hollywood film producer—perfect for readers of Taylor Jenkins Reid.

At age 26, Advika Srinivasan considers herself a failed screenwriter. To pay the bills and keep her mind off of the recent death of her twin sister, she’s taken to bartending A-list events, including the 2015 Governors Ball, the official afterparty of the Oscars. There, in a cinematic dream come true, she meets the legendary Julian Zelding—a film producer as handsome as Paul Newman and ten times as powerful—fresh off his fifth best picture win. Despite their 41-year age difference, Advika falls helplessly under his spell, and their evening flirtation ignites into a whirlwind courtship and elopement. Advika is enthralled by Julian’s charm and luxurious lifestyle, but while Julian loves to talk about his famous friends and achievements, he smoothly changes the subject whenever his previous relationships come up. Then, a month into their marriage, Julian’s first wife—the famous actress Evie Lockhart—dies, and a tabloid reports a shocking stipulation in her will. A single film reel and $1,000,000 will be bequeathed to “Julian’s latest child bride” on one condition: Advika must divorce him first.

Shaken out of her love fog and still-simmering grief over the loss of her sister—and uneasy about Julian’s sudden, inexplicable urge to start a family—Advika decides to investigate him through the eyes and experiences of his exes. From reading his first wife’s biography, to listening to his second wife’s confessional albums, to watching his third wife’s Real Housewives-esque reality show, Advika starts to realize how little she knows about her husband. Realizing she rushed into the marriage for all the wrong reasons, Advika uses the info gleaned from the lives of her husband’s exes to concoct a plan to extricate herself from Julian once and for all.

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 384

Sample

ADVIKA SRINIVASAN COULDN’T TAKE HER eyes off the Oscar. It was tottering on the edge of the bar, its golden bald head catching the light in the midst of a swirl of conversations and shouted drink orders. As she nodded at requests of “martini” directed to her face and “Scotch, neat” to her chest, Advika still found her gaze drawn to the gold statuette, disbelieving that something could seem so magnificent and mundane at the same time. Only when she was making a martini for a pink-haired woman wearing a feathery blue dress did she stop to wonder why an Academy Award was perched there for so long. By the time she poured four glasses of champagne and a tray of tequila shots, it was gone.

The awards show had ended an hour ago. Yet new waves of people kept streaming into the Governors Ball from the nearby Dolby Theatre, and as this was the first official after-party following the Oscars, the undulating, sparkling mass all seemed intent on getting drunk. Luckily for Advika, her station was out of the way of the main scrum, situated next to the unofficial smokers’ patio at the far north edge of the ballroom. She liked that this gave her an outside view of the revelry, which was spotlit in violet by an impressive array of lotus-shaped lights twirling above.

Interspersed amid the tuxedos and haute couture gowns were flashes of gold. That was where most people were clustered, around the people clutching trophies, their faces overtaken by enormous smiles. Advika envied their joy—the kind so pure and overwhelming that it’s impossible to hide, so why bother trying. She shook her gaze off the throng, willing herself to focus on her job, so that there would be another job, and another one after that.

The steady stream of patrons to her bar continued for another half hour before finally dissipating. As she contemplated taking her break, someone arrived at the party whose presence electrified the crowd, and they all seemed to surge en masse toward the movie star—because of course it was a movie star.

“What’s going on?” said Dean, her co-bartender. He towered a foot above her, which meant his body odor drifted down on her like a treetop shedding leaves.

“Ramsey Howell,” Advika said. She briefly spied the actor’s blond hair and the Oscar in his hand before he was swarmed by well-wishers. An awed, excited chant of “Ramsey’s here” went up and circulated in the air, a low, persistent buzz that kept heads swiveling in his direction.

“Oh!” Dean scratched behind his ear. “Um, be right back, then,” he said, bending down to shout in her face. But instead of walking to their break area, he joined the party guests flocking toward the actor.

“Wait! No.” But it was too late. Dean’s scarecrow height and narrow shoulders quickly disappeared among the people crowded into the ballroom.

Dean was a newbie, but she hadn’t pegged him as a total amateur. How did he even get this gig? Advika wondered, hopping from one foot to another, her toes numb from having squeezed them into black one-size-too-small loafers she had hurriedly purchased hours earlier from Payless. She gripped the edge of the bar with slippery fingers and debated whether she should take off her shoes, worrying that once she did, her feet would rebel against going back in.

With Dean’s desertion, there went Advika’s hopes for taking her break. To distract herself from her foot pain, she imagined that she was one of the party guests rather than a mere bartender. If Advika were invited to the Oscars, of course she would be there as a nominee. And as long as she was daydreaming, she might as well make herself a winner too. She didn’t know much about designers beyond the big names: Versace and Oscar de la Renta and Ralph Lauren. But for her moment in the spotlight, Advika would choose an up-and-coming Indian designer, and the form-fitting gown would be a brilliant shade of crimson with tasteful gold accents, which she’d wear along with stylish but comfortable shoes—maybe a custom pair from Converse? Her makeup would be simple—just soft, red lips and winged eyeliner. It would be the kind of look—dramatic, elegant, a touch whimsical—that would get her on all the best-dressed lists, despite being a mere screenwriter.

Usually, when Advika let herself daydream about winning an award, it would be about the speech she would give: touching yet funny, eliciting laughter from the front row of A-listers, and by the end of it, they’d be wiping away tears as they applauded. The camera would then cut to Advika’s handsome partner, who would jump out of his seat and give her a standing ovation, as everyone around him marveled at how supportive he was of her. It was a fantasy she had envisioned for herself since her junior year of high school, and the shape of it had barely changed over the past ten years. (The one swap she made was having Emma Thompson present her the award instead of Brad Pitt.) But to be at the Governors Ball, in the midst of actual winners high on their own achievements, watching several famous women exchange embraces in between gabfests, gave Advika a new, aching dream. She didn’t want to just win; she wanted to be a part of all this. Not just a tourist, given a day pass into the Hollywood dream, but an esteemed member of this community, ensconced in an inner circle.

More revelers arrived at Advika’s station. She forced a smile as she looked past the twentysomethings who seemed to be around her age, standing on her outraged toes and trying and failing to spot Dean. As she busied herself pouring drinks for the impatient partygoers, who obviously didn’t know or care that she had to handle their orders by herself, Advika thought of her most recent screenplay. She wanted it to be good enough to get her into this room as a guest, or at least the guest of someone successful. But even though Advika loved her screenplay and replayed the scenes in her head constantly (while driving to work, at work, in the shower, and making ramen for dinner), it didn’t mean that anyone else would too. The screenplay was by far the best thing she had ever written, and as far as Advika knew, she’d be the only one ever to read it.

“Can you, like, do a heavier pour?” A brunette with heavy bronzer and a miniature nose told Advika after she handed her a Negroni. “We’re not at some cheapo bar.”

“Of course. Sorry.” When confronted by rude customers, Advika avoided eye contact at all costs. Because if she didn’t, she would see the smug expressions on their (almost always white) faces and lose it on them.

“These people, man,” her date laughed, scratching his chin with his middle finger.

The group walked away without giving her a tip. Advika stifled a groan, her body tense from the new surge of pain biting her feet. She wiped away a thread of sweat above her upper lip, feeling as if everyone in the ballroom had seen how those guests had made her feel lesser than. An encounter like that only magnified how small her life had turned out. Especially on a night like this, when there was no way not to be attuned to the disparity between the haves and have-nots, the famous and the nobodies, the beautiful people and those who served them.

An Oscar, wearing a cape fashioned out of a black cocktail napkin, popped up inches from Advika’s nose.

“Scotch and soda. Por favor.”

She jumped back, startled. A silver-haired man with an elegantly undone bow tie grinned at her, and he was still holding his statue up, as if the award were asking for a drink. At the same time, a large group of bearded men, their faces flushed as they hollered and clapped each other on the back, made an unsteady beeline toward her. Judging by their science teacher looks and puffed-up bravado, she surmised they had been favored to win the Academy Award for something technical—special effects, or perhaps sound mixing—but lost in an upset. Advika made a pfft sound, annoyed and nervous about the approaching drunken horde. The silver-haired man saw where she was staring, and turned around to speak to them.

“Gentlemen, why don’t you…” was all she heard him say. The beards looked at her quizzically but then collectively turned away, leaving her alone with the strange, handsome man. In the ballroom’s dim lighting, he sort of looked like a tall, lanky George Clooney from the Ocean’s Eleven poster, as if he too starred as a charming rogue in heist films. Even though the man was at minimum twenty years older than her, Advika found herself magnetized by him. He had the cocky yet endearing confidence of a movie star headlining his own hit franchise, training all of his attentions on her as if she were his co-star instead of an extra. He’s very keen on you, her sister, Anu, would have told her if she were there, in a dramatic fake British accent punctuated by a giggle.

“I was here earlier, but you didn’t notice me,” the man said, flashing a dazzling, gap-toothed smile. “So I thought it might help if I dressed him up a bit. It’s a little vulgar, isn’t it, for him to parade around without a stitch of clothing?”

“I… guess?” Advika poured his Scotch and soda, and as she handed it to him, their fingers briefly touched, giving her a pleasant jolt. “Congratulations, by the way,” she said, nodding at his award.

“Oh, this?” He chuckled. “It’s always nice to win one. Shows that the folks here still tolerate me well enough.” He turned around and briefly surveyed the crowd. Three women in black gowns and sensible pumps stood in a semicircle a few feet away. Advika noted how they took the man in, as if he were a gallon of ice cream on a sweltering day. She briefly made eye contact with the one in the middle, an older blond woman who had been actually biting her lip while staring at him. The woman (a talent manager, likely, or some kind of studio flack) looked away, embarrassed, and Advika returned her attention to this man who apparently made the over-forty ladies salivate.

The man swung back around, and the women huddled together to whisper.

“I like it over here. It’s not too crowded, and I don’t have to shout to be heard. Maybe I’ll hang out here for a while, help fend off other drunken losers. Wait, that’s not kind. Nonwinners.” He gave her a crooked grin.

“Sure,” Advika said, carefully rocking back onto the balls of her feet to give her toes some relief. Where was Dean? Everything below her ankles was about to mutiny.

“You’re on the job; maybe we shouldn’t bother you.” The silver-haired man cocked his head to indicate he was speaking on behalf of himself and his statue. Advika caught a glimpse of the name emblazoned on the bottom, but with the lighting so dim, all she spotted was the letter J.

“No, it’s fine.” As if Advika would tell an Oscar winner to leave so she could take her break already. Not that she exactly wanted him to leave either—even though she had no idea who he was. Advika’s pain was clouding her thinking, which was surely why she didn’t recognize him. But by the way the industry women, who were inching forward with birdlike steps, were wowed by J, he must have had some power in Hollywood. He didn’t carry himself like a sound mixer or composer or film editor, all of whom Advika had served that night, creating a game for herself by trying to determine their jobs based on their behavior and snippets of conversation. J was a Somebody with a capital S, but he didn’t strike Advika as a director. Perhaps he was a producer?

“Excuse me.” The blond woman had practically leaped over to J’s right, her elbow knocking into his Oscar. “I just wanted to say congratulations. I adored your film.”

J turned to face her while smoothly pushing his trophy away from her arm. “Is that so?” He took a sip of his drink and then flashed Advika a bemused look, raising his eyebrows and making a “yikes” expression with his lips. Advika responded by giving him a small smile and a shrug. Their fleeting, wordless exchange was oddly invigorating. Advika was used to being invisible in situations like these, mini-dramas that lasted for the entirety of people waiting for their drinks. But J acted as if this woman had intruded on the two of them.

“Your movie was so deserving,” she gushed. “I’m so glad all this Oscars So White nonsense didn’t ruin your chances.”

“Seriously?” Advika muttered under her breath.

“It’s just a travesty, how that tweet hashtag thing was trying to take attention away from the nominated films. I’m sorry, but you can’t nominate an actor because he’s Black, brown, green, or whatever.” The woman shot Advika a withering look before retraining her gaze on J. “It should just come down to the performance, don’t you think?”

Advika kept her face neutral with all her might, stopping herself from reacting more than she already had. She was supposed to be the equivalent of wallpaper at events like this. But it was disappointing that despite the amount of conversation about diversity and representation that #OscarsSoWhite had received in the weeks leading up the awards show, this awful comment was the only mention Advika had heard about it all night. She snuck a glance at J. Would he agree with this idiot woman? Advika steeled herself for his response, waiting to be let down but hoping not to be. And based on the way the woman was staring at him with furiously blinking eyes, they were both equally curious about what J would say.

But J offered no reply. Instead, he merely gave Advika another knowing look, the corners of his mouth briefly pricking up. Advika sagged with relief. J thought she was a nitwit.

“My name’s Lynn, by the way,” the blond woman persisted. She held out her hand, which J shook as if touching raw meat. “We met at the SAG after-party last week?” Then Lynn turned to Advika. “Champagne, with a splash of vodka. But it has to be top-shelf.” The dismissive tenor of her voice went silken as she returned to J. “So listen. I’m not usually this bold, but my friends”—and here she gestured at the two women watching them with rapt attention, their feet slipped out of their heels—“put me up to this. They know I’ve had the biggest crush on you since—”

“My dear, I’m not interested. But thank you.” J took his Oscar and stepped to the side, where Advika had just poured a dollop of her bar’s cheapest vodka into Lynn’s champagne flute. Lynn grabbed the glass like a microphone, large drops spilling out as she stomped away. J chuckled under his breath.

“That really doesn’t happen to me anymore,” he said out loud, more to himself than Advika. “At least not that overt.” J shook his head and ran his fingers over the lapel of his tuxedo jacket. “What were we talking about?”

“You said you’d look out for me, help me fend off the sad sacks who didn’t win Oscars like you.” Are you flirting? Anu’s voice popped up in Advika’s brain.

“Ha,” J responded. He raised his finger and mouthed, One sec, as he pulled out his phone from his breast pocket. As J turned his back to her again, Advika admired his silhouette: lean, yet also broad shouldered. He almost looked like an Oscar himself, except the trophy had a rectangular head and J’s was more squarish. He had what Advika liked to think of as “Goldilocks height”: not too tall, not too short, but just right. If they danced together, she wouldn’t have to wear flats or stand on her tiptoes. Instead, Advika’s chin would graze J’s shoulder, which meant he could press his cheek against hers as they danced. Advika slammed her palm hard against her forehead, as if she could push the absurd concept of dancing with J out of her mind.

He swung toward her once more, then pretended to tip his hat at her, as if he were a cowboy wearing a Stetson. She blushed. Advika waited for him to say something, her gaze going to his bow tie, too nervous to meet his eyes. But J said nothing, only taking another sip from his drink. Surely he couldn’t be waiting for her to speak. What could she possibly even say? Advika pulled her foot out of her right shoe and pointed it behind her, as if she were a flamingo. The agony of one foot diminished while that of the other increased. So she was already in a highly agitated state when she realized that J was now peering at her chest with the intensity of someone taking an eye exam trying to read the letters on the last row. Living, and especially working, in LA meant receiving these kinds of glances on a near-daily basis. But to be outright stared at in this audacious manner was so bizarre she wanted to laugh.

“No name tag. So I guess I’ll just have to ask you your name,” he finally said, looking up at her apologetically, as if it were his fault he didn’t know it.

“Advika,” she mumbled. She couldn’t recall the last time a stranger had asked this of her, and she fumbled the syllables in her mouth, as if her own name were a new language to her.

“I’m sorry, my dear. I didn’t catch it.”

“Advika,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the brief tidal wave of applause as Ramsey winded through the center of the party.

“Aretha?”

“Sure!” she shouted back. What was the point in correcting him? The silence stretched between them as the noise swelled when the actor crossed just mere feet away from Advika’s station. She had been searching the crowd gathered around Ramsey, hoping to catch sight of Dean, when J surprised Advika by circling behind the bar to stand beside her. She quickly returned her right foot back into her shoe and stifled a shriek of pain.

“Here comes young Mr. Howell,” he said into her ear, pointing his Oscar in the direction of the crowd. “Or not so young anymore, is he?” They both watched as Ramsey and his entourage entered the smoker’s patio, seeming to take a quarter of the party with them. “There’s always a prince who feels the crown is owed to him,” J mused, the violet lights giving a warm tint to his silver hair. “And this one finally got his.”

Despite the sensation of her toes being fed into a meat grinder, Advika tingled with excitement. Unlike seemingly everyone else in the Dolby Ballroom, J had not been captivated by the movie star or his Oscar-winning performance. Advika had seen The Executioner’s Final Reply, and twenty minutes in she knew that the gruesome medieval drama was Ramsey’s Hail Mary, a bid to score the best actor prize that had long eluded him.

“But it’s such a crock, right?” Advika met the silver-haired man’s eyes and felt a frisson of connection between them. “He’s the kind of guy who pretends he doesn’t want accolades and awards, but he was so thirsty for them.”

“Ha, yes. Exactly. So I assume you don’t think he’s the best actor of your generation?” J took a sip of his drink, his middle finger tapping the glass as he did so.

“He’s not from my generation, but I think he’s very good. I just wouldn’t have given him an Oscar because he ate a raw bison heart and screamed at everyone like a belligerent toddler. The CGI dragon was more realistic than his performance, honestly.”

The silver-haired man chuckled. “I’m Julian. You’re hilarious.” He held out his hand, and before shaking it, Advika wiped her damp palm on her pants. He held on to her hand a beat longer than necessary, and she looked away, embarrassed.

“Would you like another drink?” she asked. Julian was still standing next to her, crossing the invisible line separating somebodies from nobodies. This development was so discomfiting, with a splash of thrilling, that Advika needed to reestablish that boundary by reminding him she was just a service worker.

“Allow me,” Julian said, sweeping a bottle of Scotch from behind the bar to refill his glass. “I hope you don’t mind me joining you back here,” Julian added with a wink. “It’s better company.” She blushed, and the tingling sensation intensified. “Would you like one too?”

Advika shook her head, feeling her face grow hot. As Julian busied himself making a new drink, Advika pinched the inside of her wrist to remind herself she wasn’t dreaming, that this terrifically good-looking man was ignoring Hollywood’s biggest party to chat with her. Which again brought her back to wondering who this man was, exactly, and why he would spend so much time talking with her. And what had he won the Oscar for? Unlike everyone else holding gold, he seemed pretty blasé about his award. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he ambled back into the party and forgot to take it with him.

“So,” Julian said, “obviously you’re a fan of movies. What is it you like so much?”

Advika glanced briefly at him, then at his Oscar, glowing like a small flame on a starless night, somehow managing to still look dignified despite wearing a superhero cape made out of a cocktail napkin. To have it in such proximity made Advika feel as if she were about to speak to the movies themselves. Like a worshipper at a temple speaking directly to her deity, Advika answered Julian’s question by addressing his award.

“It’s the structure. The rising action, the falling action, the resolution—I can follow it like a line on my palm. Everything else can surprise you—the acting choices, the score, the direction, the plot twist even—but not the structure. When nothing else in the world is predictable, you can anticipate when each story beat will happen. If you know what kind of movie you’re watching, like a rom-com, you can almost time it to the minute. I like that. Nothing else in the world feels more comfortable to me than knowing the rhythms of a movie.”

Advika had never articulated that out loud before, because no one had ever asked her. Dazed by her own admission, she was about to look up to see Julian’s response, when there was a sharp rap on her left shoulder: Dean had finally returned. He was breathing heavily, his forehead dotted with sweat, and his smell had gone from trash can to garbage dump.

“You can take five now if you want,” he said, bending down toward her ear. Then Dean looked past her and gushed, “Julian Zelding!” He fiddled with something tucked in the back of his waistband that looked like a rolled-up screenplay.

“Don’t,” she hissed. Startled by Advika’s admonition, Dean seemed at a loss for what to do. Still awed by Julian, he gave him an awkward military salute.

“Stand down—I’m not your captain,” Julian told Dean with a bemused smile. He picked his Oscar up off the bar and nodded at Advika, indicating he was about to leave. Advika’s jaw tightened. She wanted so badly for him to stay, especially now that she knew his name and that—based upon Dean’s response to him—he really was a Somebody. A Somebody whose name seemed so familiar, but she still couldn’t place it.

“Excuse me!” And now Lynn was back, her half-empty champagne flute squeezed tight in her fist. “Did I not ask you for top-shelf vodka? This tastes like dog shit.”

“Oh. Right.” The night was beginning to take on the farcical absurdity of a Marx Brothers film. Who would stop by next—Ramsey Howell? “My mistake. Can I get you another one?”

“Like I’d trust you to tie my shoe, let alone make my drink.” Lynn nodded at Dean. “You make it.” She set down the champagne flute carelessly, and it toppled on its side, spilling all over. Dean stared dumbly as Advika grabbed it before it could smash to the floor. She set it down behind the bar, and as she did so, she registered that Julian, and his Oscar, was gone.

“Taking my break now,” Advika announced, leaving before either Dean or Lynn had a chance to respond. Let stupid, wandering Dean deal with entitled, overserved guests. Advika limped off toward the swinging doors that would take her through the kitchen to the employee bathrooms. How she longed to chuck her loafers in the trash, and the whole night along with them. Advika never, ever drank on the job. But she was seriously considering downing a shot of tequila after she returned from her break. It might be the only way she could stand doing this job for several more hours.

Because to have had Julian’s attentions, even for a brief moment, showed her how starved she was to be seen. Even now, walking past party attendees who barely acknowledged her presence reminded Advika how much her life had shrunken down to basics: work, eat, sleep, survive. And although she had been thrilled at the opportunity to work her first Governors Ball, the whole job had turned into a bright red arrow flashing in her face, a stinging reminder of all the ways she was a failure.

Advika felt fingernails dig into her skin as someone grabbed her forearm. She stumbled back and her foot connected with the square toe of a leather heel.

“You,” Lynn said, pulling Advika around to face her. “You just don’t walk away from me like that.”

Advika was too in shock to respond. The fingernails went in deeper.

“I’m going to report you to your manager. You have no right to be so rude to me. You practically poisoned my drink!” Lynn swayed slightly, and her grip loosened. With their faces so close together, Advika could now see that this woman, with her unfocused eyes and smeared red lipstick, was full-on drunk, as if she had just downed several tequila shots in succession. “You don’t treat people this way. Do you hear me?”

You’re going to let her treat you this way? Anu’s incredulous voice echoed in her head. Sure, Advika thought. Nothing matters. I don’t matter.

“Ladies,” Julian interjected. Advika’s heartbeat sped up, and she was so jittery with relief she was near tears. “Mind if I join this conversation?”

Lynn finally let go of Advika’s arm. “Why, Julian—I thought you had left,” she slurred. “Could we chat? I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m just such a fan, you know.” She lifted her left leg as if trying to do a high kick. “I’ve been told I have foot-in-mouth disease. Ha ha.”

“Let’s go get you a drink. A real one,” Julian soothed, placing his hand on the small of Lynn’s back. Advika watched them go, tears streaming down her cheeks and bouncing off her chin. Get the fuck out of here, Anu’s voice admonished. Advika fled the ballroom, through the swinging doors and the kitchen buzzing like a shaken beehive, past red-faced chefs and sous chefs chopping and sweating and shouting at each other, and through another door into a nearly empty hallway. For the first time since early that afternoon, Advika was not surrounded by a sea of other people. It should have been a relief to finally have a moment to herself, but instead the stillness only magnified her isolation. One of the overhead lights flickered in a menacing way, the dim fluorescent bulb making a bzzz sound as if announcing the arrival of a monster creeping toward her with unhurried steps. Advika shivered as she ran her fingers over her forearm, wincing at the three tiny half-moons left in her skin by Lynn’s fingernails. From down the hall, Advika heard a door creak open. She was just about to escape to the sanctuary of the women’s bathroom when she heard Julian speak.

“There you are.” He strode toward her, his Oscar glinting in his hand. “Are you okay?”

Advika found herself unable to immediately respond, so stunned she was to see him. She hiccupped, then looked down at her cursed feet through tear-streaked eyelashes.

“Yes,” she finally managed to say.

“I worked as a waiter about three lifetimes ago,” Julian said with a sigh. “There were so many times I had to bite my tongue, when all I wanted to do instead was throw a punch. And once, I did.”

“Really?” Advika said, looking up with surprise. Julian had the refined, debonair comportment of James Bond crossed with a European prince. He did not look like someone who ever had to wipe down sticky tables, plunge toilets, or refill drinks.

“This man decided to express his unhappiness with the temperature of his steak by trying to shove it down my throat. Instead, my fist met his mouth. I lost the job, but not my dignity.” He shrugged modestly, a cheeky grin lining his face. “No regrets.”

“Wow,” Advika said. The lighting in the hallway, which just moments ago had the hallmarks of a horror movie, now cultivated the intimacy of candlelight. Julian’s presence had the effect of standing near a fireplace after being rescued from a blizzard, the surging warmth not just restorative but lifesaving.

“Did she hurt you?” Julian’s eyebrows creased in concern, and his eyes traveled to Advika’s arm, which she was still cradling.

“Oh, it’s nothing. I just can’t believe she’d grab me that way.” A charred, slightly garlicky aroma emanated from the nearby kitchen, and Julian’s mouth twisted into a comic grimace.

“It looks like the kitchen staff isn’t having a good night either,” he said. Advika felt her lips tremble into a nervous smile. “The people in this town can be obscenely awful and selfish, especially to the people who work the hardest and deserve their ire the least.” Julian placed a gentle hand on Advika’s shoulder. “I am so sorry you had to endure that. And I’m very sorry that I inadvertently brought that woman into your orbit. I had her escorted out of the party.”

Advika gasped. “You did?”

The door opened again, accompanied by a strong burnt odor and flurry of tense voices.

“Let’s go somewhere where we can have a proper conversation,” Julian said, his eyes twinkling. “Without any more interruptions. What do you say?”

Advika had worked eight major after-parties in the pas