The Leading Lady's Secret.

: Catching Them at the Door

Emma’s pulse still roared in her ears.

The photo on the screen looked like a still from a romance drama: Charles and Jane smiled up from the photo, two glasses of wine between them, restaurant lights soft and golden. Her mind kept insisting it was just pixels, something distant and unreal, but her chest felt tight and painfully real.

On the other end of the line, Barbara was still talking. Emma heard the rush of traffic behind her voice, the clipped rhythm she used when she was half managing a crisis, half scolding the world.

Barbara wasn’t just her agent. She’d been there since shampoo-commercial days, had seen Emma cry after bad auditions, had shoved tissues into her hand before interviews. She was the only person who knew that the untouchable director Charles Holden took off his shoes at Emma’s door, drank awful instant coffee in their kitchen, and had once spoken about a girl named Jane with a softness Emma had pretended not to hear.

If anyone understood exactly how much this photo hurt, it was Barbara—and that was why she sounded ready to fight the entire world on Emma’s behalf.

“Say something,” Barbara said. “You’re freaking me out.”

“I saw the photo,” Emma replied.

“I figured,” Barbara said. “I’m still angry. He really posted that for everyone to see. Unreal.”

Emma picked at a loose thread on the cushion. “Maybe he didn’t think it through.”

“Come on, Em.” Barbara’s voice was sharp. “He’s a director. Every move he makes is calculated. He knew what fans would say when they saw him with Jane.”

“It was just dinner,” Emma said.

“Oh, right, just dinner with his legendary first love,” Barbara snapped. “At a romantic restaurant. With wine. While his current girlfriend sat at home waiting, after he told her to give up the best role of her career.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Emma murmured. “It sounds…”

“Like the truth?” Barbara cut in. “You fought for that role. The producers were blown away. You won fair and square. It’s not your fault they only later realized their precious director was secretly dating you.”

“He’s worried about rumors,” Emma said. “About the show.”

“He’s worried about himself,” Barbara replied. “He doesn’t want people to say he favors his girlfriend. That’s why he wants you out. And now he’s getting cozy with Jane? Please.”

A jagged hurt twisted through Emma. She pressed her fingers harder into the sofa, as if she could anchor herself there. “Barbara,” she said quietly. “Stop.”

Barbara paused. “You’re still defending him.”

“I just… I know him,” Emma said. She stared at the frozen image of Charles and Jane, willing it to blur. “He’s proud and stubborn, but he’s not a bad person. He wouldn’t cheat on me.”

“Are you sure?” Barbara asked.

“He told me once that I’m the only one in his heart,” Emma said. “He doesn’t throw those words around.”

Barbara sighed, frustration roughening the exhale. “I know you love him. Watching you get hurt like this makes me want to punch him.”

A small, painful smile tugged at Emma’s lips despite everything. “Please don’t attack my director.”

“No promises,” Barbara muttered, but then she softened. “Listen. Whatever is going on with him and Jane, it doesn’t change this: you earned that role. It’s not his to give away as some kind of apology gift to his ex.”

“She’s his ex,” Emma said. “I’m the one he’s with now.”

“Then make him remember that,” Barbara said.

“I don’t want to fight with him again,” Emma whispered. The memory of their last argument rushed back—the way he’d slammed the door and walked out, the sharp clench in her chest. She couldn’t bear the thought of living through that scene again.

“Then don’t fight,” Barbara said. “Talk. Tell him how you feel. Tell him you’re not giving up that role. If he still refuses to listen…” She stopped, and Emma could almost see her jaw tighten. “We’ll deal with it.”

Emma swallowed. “You make it sound so simple.”

“I said we’d deal with it,” Barbara replied. “I didn’t say it would be painless. Call him later, okay? Or go see him. Don’t just sit there and stare at that stupid photo.”

“Okay,” Emma murmured.

“And Emma?”

“Yeah?”

“No matter what happens with him,” Barbara said, “I’m on your side. Always. Not as your agent. As your friend.”

Warmth spread through Emma’s chest, threading through the ache. “I know,” she said softly. “Thank you.”

They hung up.

For a moment Emma just sat there, phone in her hand.

Emma set the phone on the table and stared at Charles’s name on the screen.

“Talk first,” she whispered. “Don’t assume the worst.”

She pressed call and lifted the phone to her ear.

One ring. Two. Three. Four.

“Come on, pick up,” she muttered.

The call went to voicemail.

She ended it and called again.

Ring after ring. Still no answer.

She tried a third time. It went straight to voicemail.

He had rejected the call.

Emma stared at the screen. Her eyes burned.

“Fine,” she said. “If you won’t answer, I’ll come find you.”

She grabbed her coat and bag and left the apartment. The city was bright now, the morning sun high between glass towers.

She hailed a taxi and slid inside.

“Riverside Media Building,” she told the driver.

He pulled into traffic. Emma sat back, twisting the strap of her bag. Outside the window, billboards flashed past.

Her phone buzzed.

A message from Barbara.

Did you call him?

Emma typed back: He didn’t pick up. I’m going to his office.

Barbara replied: Want me to come?

Emma wrote: No. If he sees you he’ll know I told you everything. I’ll handle it.

Barbara sent a final text. You’re not wrong here. Don’t let him make you feel guilty.

Emma’s throat tightened. She put the phone away and watched the buildings grow taller as they neared the business district.

The taxi stopped in front of a sleek glass tower: the Riverside Media Building, home to Charles’s studio. Emma paid the driver and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

She headed toward the entrance, her heart beating faster with every step.

Before she could cross the driveway, a familiar black car rolled out of the underground parking garage. Emma stopped on the curb.

It was Charles’s car.

Through the windshield, she saw him in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel.

He wasn’t alone.

Jane sat in the passenger seat, laughing at something he’d said. Her long hair fell over her shoulders. She reached up and brushed an invisible speck off Charles’s sleeve, casual and familiar.

Emma froze.

The car pulled up to the curb a few meters away, stopping by the side entrance. Charles put the car in park and got out.

He walked around to the passenger side and opened the door for Jane, his hand resting lightly on the frame. The gesture was natural. He dipped his head, saying something Emma couldn’t hear.

Jane laughed again, then stood but didn’t get in right away. Instead, she stepped closer, looping her arms around his neck.

From where Emma stood, she saw Jane’s face tilt up, saw her lips curve into a soft smile.

Then Jane kissed him.

Not a quick peck on the cheek. A slow, affectionate kiss, as if there was no one else in the world.

Emma’s fingers went numb around the strap of her bag.

She couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away. The noise of traffic and people faded until there was only that image burned into her mind: Charles standing by the open car door, Jane’s arms around his neck, their faces close.

He had told Emma she was the only one in his heart.

Yet he was here, in broad daylight, letting another woman kiss him like it was normal.

A cold wave rolled through Emma from head to toe. Her heart hammered so hard it hurt.

She did not know if they had seen her.

She only knew that the ground under her feet no longer felt steady at all.