The stairwell smelled like last night's takeout and hot dust. My phone buzzed against my hip - one long shiver that means a push alert, not a text. I kept climbing. Second buzz. I checked the screen.
Blind Item #472: A spotless idol hides a ring while courting America's sweetheart.Developing.Trending #3 in Los Angeles.
The key slipped, metal kissed concrete, and I caught the rail before the noise turned into a neighbor. The motion sensor woke the hall one tube at a time until the corridor looked like an aquarium that needed feeding.
Rita called. I answered as the deadbolt turned.
RITA: "Pick up."ME: "You're on."RITA: "It's him - not by name, but the phrasing is a stencil. Do not tweet. Do not like. Screenshot only."
Keys, chain, door. I left the overheads dark and flicked the lamp by the mail pile. Yellow light made the kitchen a set with bad intentions.
"Read me the first two lines," I said.
Paper rustled - Rita prints everything like it's still 2009. Quote: "A man with a halo and a handler can't keep his fingers off a sweetheart who's signed to a rival house. Pity his secret, who doesn't photograph well." End quote.
Folder:UOOC_leak_2509 → BI_472. Screenshots rolled - headlines, tags, a slowed interview laugh that made innocence look guilty. I logged times. I logged sources. Rule:Names, not vibes.
"Time stamp?" I said.
"Posted seven minutes ago. Syndication in two. Someone's paying for the rocket." Rita's voice was steady the way a hand is steady when it pulls a splinter with tweezers.
The fridge hummed. The clock ticked like a metronome that wanted a faster song. I opened the junk drawer, shifted an orphan Allen key and a knot of rubber bands, and lifted the flat white envelope with the bank logo.
Receipt: Glendale branch, safe deposit access. I read the date. "Two weeks after my last public photo without a ring. Eleven forty-two a.m."
"Bless the clerk with the bob," Rita said. "Keep the paper clean. Where's the velvet pocket?"
"In the bank," I said. I slid the envelope back and shut the drawer with my hip. "My left hand is tourist bare."
"Stay that way," Rita said. "Listen. Agency memo just hit. I'll read it and you breathe."
"I am breathing."
"Breathe quieter. Quote: 'All affiliated artists are reminded to remain reasonable and refrain from speculative commentary during active rumor cycles. Please prioritize empathy for partners and extend grace to colleagues participating in strategic visibility pairings.' End quote."
I rubbed a thumbnail along the counter seam until it squeaked. "They wrote 'strategic visibility pairings' like a volunteer program."
"They lacquered a leash," Rita said. "Quiet does not mean mute. If you want control, get on camera where the transcript belongs to us."
"How?"
"Stage Twelve lost their spoiler. Food poison or a conscience - unclear. They want a pick-me who can read. You won't knife anyone."
"I don't play other women," I said. "I won't hand them my spine as props."
"You advise," Rita said. Paper again. "New rule this season. Contestants may advise peers during decision periods - as long as advice doesn't include slurs or threats. That single word gives you a lane."
"Advise is not sabotage."
"It's also not silence. Advice on mic is screen time with verbs you own."
I pinched the phone between ear and shoulder and pulled a legal pad from under coupons. Bold note:ADVISE = PERMITTED. Under it: DOCUMENT EVERYTHING. Under that: Names, not vibes. The kettle clicked because muscle memory had turned it on. Mint steam ghosted the cheap light fixture.
"Call time?"
"Thirty minutes. Stage Twelve intake corridor. Government ID, lawyer's number, and that soft voice you use when you're about to take someone apart and leave their shoes standing up."
"That voice doesn't exist."
"It exists and it trends."
I slid the note under the peach magnet my mother mailed the week she didn't want to fight. The magnet had a painted bruise - someone's idea of realism.
"Deliverables," I said. "I'm not a mascot. I want the rule sheet on camera. I want confessional context for why I advise. No wardrobe cartooning. Security outside, not a PA with a headset."
"Noted. I'll translate that into contracts."
A text from Cassie: CASSIE:Jacket that says grownup without saying boardroom. Lights will hate it in the best way.
Another from an unknown number dropped my stomach before I opened it: UNKNOWN:We should talk before tonight. Serena.
I didn't answer. Not dislike - uncertainty. I wrote my mother's name on the pad, crossed it out, and put the pen down before the page turned into prayer.
I opened the drawer again, took the receipt out, looked at the time stamp like a talisman. Eleven forty-two. The Friday we bought a hall bulb and a bag of lemons. Evan carried the bag while I pretended the velvet pocket wasn't heavy. My throat went hot - tea had nothing to do with it.
"Tell me you didn't post a sub," Rita said.
"I didn't post anything." I mirrored the phone's folders on the laptop. Cloud sync on. Time sync on. Folder:UOOC_assets → contracts → addenda.
"What's the sponsor tonight?"
"Snack brand plus dating app. If you breathe 'integrity' they'll cut to chips."
"I can say 'facts.'"
"Facts are knives if you hold the handle," Rita said.
Keys behind her silence. Printer cough. "I have Daphne," she said, bright, then flat again. "Vivian's on with her - of course she is. Smile. I'll keep smiling until my face burns."
"Patch me when Vivian hangs up."
"She never hangs up. I'll wedge you in. Pack your bag."
Laptop sleeve. Charger. Phone cord. Battery. Makeup bag - powder, lip, brow. Cassie's jacket off the chair. Sneakers, not heels. Running in heels is television, not life.
I killed the lamp, then turned it back on because my hands didn't trust the dark. Rita stayed on the line, weather on a wire.
"I know why you didn't call him," she said.
"Do you." I checked the window lock - third floor habit - and pressed the latch twice like it might lie.
"You didn't call because the call becomes a meeting, the meeting becomes a memo, and the memo becomes a leash."
"Don't say leash," I said. "Say lanyard so I can pretend it comes with a badge."
"Lanyard," she said. "Happy?"
"No," I said, and smiled anyway.
Another push: Developing: sweetheart sighted at Pelham Hotel with unnamed companion. The photo was elbows and a shadow that could be any jaw in California. The caption used "cozy." The comments said worse.
I swiped it away. Not bravery - a list and a clock. I put the peach magnet back on the receipt so I'd stop touching proof like a worry stone. I grabbed my keys.
"Say the door plan," Rita said.
"Out, left, stairs. If the elevator's open I take it, but I don't wait. Street to Franklin, rideshare from the alley by the mural. If flashes gather, left hand curled, head up. No smile. No snarl."
"And if someone blocks you for a question?"
"I'll give them one," I said. "Names, not vibes."
"Print it on a shirt," Rita said. Paper again. Then a change in texture. "Good news. I have your confessional guarantees. Rule sheet can be on camera if you ask during the segment and the operator nods. Daphne thinks it's cute when talent pretends to produce."
"I don't pretend."
"Then produce. Call me when you hit the sidewalk. Cassie's at wardrobe. Boone meets you at the service door."
"Security." I breathed once. "Thank you."
I dumped the mint water, slid the chain, undid the deadbolt, and opened into the hall's aquarium light. The sensor clicked like applause cut too early.
Halfway down, Mrs. Park peeked with her Pomeranian. "Big night?"
"Just work."
"Work can be big." She smiled. The dog sneezed at my shoes.
The stairwell was cooler. My phone vibrated like a trapped fly - I did not look. I took the steps two at a time and bumped the door with my hip because my hands were full of the future.
Outside smelled like warm tar and a food truck without a permit. Traffic on Franklin was sticky and impatient. A horn announced itself like a local politician.
"Thirty minutes," Rita said in my ear, close - like she'd moved into the stairwell walls.
"I heard you." I stepped off the curb into an evening that makes mistakes look cinematic. "Go."
[Foreshadow]Receipt timestamp; rule sheet on camera; Serena's number left unanswered.