Chapter 4: The Dinner Sacrifice

That night, my assistant told me to check Instagram.

Carter had reposted the studio’s official statement, clarifying that he’d only bumped into the starlet at the hotel—no relationship, nothing more.

The uproar online faded almost as quickly as it had started.

Carter also dialed it back, letting the label orchestrate his attendance at a big industry dinner that night.

Several production companies were circling a major period drama, and Carter wanted to network hard for the male lead role.

But in Hollywood, ambition’s the rule, not the exception.

At the dinner, I realized half the hottest young actors in LA were there. Some were baby-faced and eager, others slick and sycophantic, all of them hungry for a shot.

The room was a haze of Tom Ford cologne and tension, everyone maneuvering for a chance at the spotlight. The desperation was thick enough to taste, like ozone before a thunderstorm.

Carter never played the game well—he was too proud to grovel, too raw to schmooze.

Mr. Whitaker, a big-shot investor, had his assistant pour drinks for everyone at the table.

Carter said, cool and clipped, “Sorry, gotta keep my voice in shape. No drinks for me.”

The whole table went dead silent.

Anyone with half a brain would take the drink—show respect, play along. But Carter acted like he was above it all.

Some of the other actors stifled laughs behind their napkins.

Carter realized he’d screwed up—again. He sat there, jaw clenched, not saying a word.

Someone tried to smooth it over: “Since Carter can’t drink, maybe his manager can take his place, Mr. Whitaker?”

That manager was me.

Mr. Whitaker smiled, all teeth, and had his assistant pour me three full glasses.

I have a weak stomach. My GI doc at Cedars-Sinai warned me to avoid alcohol like the plague.

I should’ve refused. But when I turned, Carter’s eyes found mine—wide, desperate, like a kid lost at LAX.

Before I knew it, the burning liquor was sliding down my throat, setting my insides on fire, as if I’d swallowed molten glass.

The room spun, but I kept my face blank, refusing to let anyone see me falter.

The rest of the dinner passed in a blur.

Afterward, I collapsed on the curb outside, the city lights spinning overhead.

The last thing I saw before blacking out was Carter running toward me, panic on his face, his sneakers slapping the pavement. For a second, I almost let myself believe he really cared.