Chapter 40: FORTY

RYDER

There’s nothing I dread more than press junkets. I’m built for the shadows—behind the scenes, behind the lens—not under stage lights with a mic clipped to my shirt.

These days, the interviews barely scratch the surface. The questions are all fluff, no substance. Still, this is what comes with selling Juliet After Romeo, so I suck it up. One hour on camera, then I’m out.

Eve’s sitting beside me in the backseat of the blacked-out town car. Her face is pale, and she keeps shifting like she’s fighting off nausea.

I rest my hand gently on her knee. The divider between us and the driver is up—no eyes or ears on us. “You okay? How’d things go with Annabeth?”

Her voice is calm, but it has an edge. “It was… fine.”

Just fine? That’s not the answer I expected.

“Only fine?” I press, watching her closely.

She doesn’t meet my eyes. “Yeah. It was fine.”

She’s lying. Not fully, maybe—but something’s off.

“Eve.”

Before I can dig any deeper, she flashes me a bright smile and cuts me off. “Oh, look—we’re here.”

Our driver swings around to the discreet entrance behind the Entertainment Weekly building. No crowds, no flashing lights. Just us and the nervous intern waiting to usher us in.

“Hope the ride wasn’t too bad?” she chirps as she guides us toward the elevator.

Small talk has never been my strong suit. But Eve handles it with ease.

“A bit of traffic, but nothing tragic,” she says.

“Oh, tell me about it,” the intern laughs. “That’s why I just cycle everywhere. Perks of living close by.”

We’re led to a vibrant backstage area, full of velvet curtains, too-bright lights, and the distant buzz of a live audience waiting on the other side. Out front, Alexia Erwin is already working the crowd, mid-monologue about some ridiculous viral puppy video.

Someone clips a mic to my jacket, and before I can even check my reflection, a team of stylists descends on me.

One flattens my flyaways. Another pats down the shine on my forehead. Someone else is dabbing my lips with balm.

Eve laughs beside me. “Look at you getting pampered. Must be rough.”

I snort. “It’s not as glamorous as it looks, trust me.”

But I’m not really paying attention. Something’s wrong. I can tell by the way she keeps blinking like her eyes are too dry, the way her throat moves like she’s forcing something back down. Her skin’s clammy, and she’s definitely flushed.

I catch the eye of one of the assistants nearby. “Get her a chair.”

“Ryder, really. I’m fine,” she says, waving me off.

I don’t even look at her. “Now.”

The assistant nods. “Right away, Mr. Vane.”

“Sit down,” I tell her, still focused ahead. “I’ll knock this out fast.”

She rolls her eyes with a soft smile. “No need to speed it up on my account. I’m sure your fans are dying to bask in your glory.”

I wait until no one’s watching, then lean over and squeeze her ass. “You know exactly where I’d rather be right now.”

She giggles, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Alright, smooth talker—get ready. She’s about to call you out.”

And sure enough, there’s Alexia Erwin in her over-the-top curls and pastel explosion of an outfit, grinning like she’s about to introduce royalty.

“Let’s give a huge round of applause for the one and only—Ryder Vane!”

The cheers are deafening. The lights hit me like a freight train. Music swells obnoxiously from the house band.

I force a smile, step out, and wave to the crowd. When I reach Alexia, I offer a professional handshake. But she pulls me into a double-cheek kiss instead.

I grit my teeth through it. The cameras are on, the audience is watching. Gotta play nice. I can’t afford to look like the difficult one.

The applause fades as I lower myself into the guest chair. Saying I want to get this over with would be an understatement.

“Well, aren’t you just a snack and a half!” Alexia exclaims, voice turned up to eleven. She’s vibrant, loud, borderline theatrical—exactly what you’d expect from a primetime talk show host.

I don’t know how to respond. I’m not self-conscious by any means, but the way she eyes me like I’m up for auction, licking her lips like I’m dessert?

It makes my skin crawl. If our roles were reversed, there’d be a social media firestorm by morning. But this?

This gets a laugh track and a few hashtags. The internet picks and chooses its outrage.

I offer the safest reply I can muster. “Appreciate it.”

Keep it light. Keep it breezy. Easier said than done.

“I’ve been trying to get you on this couch for months,” she says, crossing one leg over the other, her smile practically stretching off her face. “What took so long, dreamboat?”

I smirk. “Maybe your invites got lost in the void. Happens more than you’d think.”

The audience eats it up. She’s not offended—this is her game, after all.

“Well,” she coos, “my birthday’s next month. Don’t misplace that one.”

“I’ll try to mark it in bold.”

She laughs too hard at that. Overkill. But I get it—it’s part of the persona. She’s not here to be subtle. She’s here to entertain.

“So!” she says, scooting to the edge of her seat. “Word is you’ve got something new in the works. Very hush-hush. Any chance you can drop us a little teaser?”

“Nope.”

The crowd roars. Why? I’ll never know.

Alexia claps her hands together, delighted. “God, I love deadpan humor. We love a man with zero chill!”

“Wait... Who’s ‘we’? Who’s Stan?”

Laughter again. At this point, I’m not sure if they’re laughing at me or the idea of me, but whatever keeps the clock ticking forward.

Once the noise dies down a bit, I offer, “What I can say is... you’re in for something really good.”

“Annabeth Stone’s leading, right?”

“She is. And she’s killing it so far.”

“Ooooh, now that I can’t wait to see,” she says, wagging her brows like she just heard a juicy secret.

That’s when it happens.

Movement from the side of the stage. It’s subtle at first—shadows shifting, crew whispering, someone running a little too fast behind the curtain. My eyes adjust to the darkness just enough to see what they’re all looking at.

Then I see her.

Eve.

Collapsed.

Flat on the floor.

I don’t even think. I’m up and moving before my conscious brain can catch up. I hear Alexia say something—probably trying to calm the crowd or reassure me that someone’s handling it—but it all fades into white noise. None of it matters.

I shove past a line of camera crew, my chest squeezing tighter with each step. I drop to the ground beside her and pull her into my arms. Her skin’s clammy.

She’s breathing, but barely there—floating somewhere between awake and unconscious.

“Eve. Hey. Eve, come on,” I whisper, brushing her hair from her face.

She stirs, just barely. Her eyes flutter like she’s trying to come back to me, but her body isn’t cooperating.

“Someone call an ambulance,” I bark. A production assistant scrambles away.

I gather her into my arms like it’s instinct. “We’re going. I’m not waiting.”