Olivia Han waited for a response, like a good little therapist. Chase wasn’t going to give her one.

Finally, the woman folded her hands and said, “Conrad Santos hired me.”

This. Now this surprised Chase. She’d worked with Con Santos on her second film. She’d been twelve, still innocent, still rearing to tackle the film industry with her immense talent. Con had been an assistant director, working under the legendary Milos Bergman. In his midtwenties, he’d been dazzling, driven, brilliant. And surprisingly patient with an annoying twelve-year-old who had just started getting too big for her britches. When she got lippy or tried to grandstand, instead of ignoring her, he sat with her and talked about odd things, like how snakes shed their skin or how earthquakes happened. Stupid stuff, really, but hardly anyone actually sat and talked with her while she ate a “healthy salad and fruit cup” in order to avoid becoming too plump for good roles.

Con had risen in the directing ranks like a comet—he was hardworking and had a great feel for what worked in shots. Last year he’d been nominated for an Academy Award for Best Director for Mission: Forever. Rumor had it he’d grabbed a screenplay about a beleaguered Victorian police inspector who hides his homosexuality (and murdered wife’s body) as he navigates political turmoil. Dark and supposedly brilliant, the script had been on all the studios’ radars. Santos had won the rights to produce it, and investors had lined up. He’d called her agent about the role of the neighbor’s niece, a heroin-addicted dancer who becomes suspicious of the inspector. She assumed he wanted her to draw upon her experience as a drug addict. Her plié wasn’t bad, either.

“Conrad Santos? He hired you?” Chase crossed her arms, knowing it looked defensive but doing it anyway because she felt defensive. Like this woman could dig in the cracks she’d carefully plastered over.

Olivia glanced down at her hands. Her fingernails were painted a neutral color, and she wore a single ring but not on her left hand. “That’s correct. It seems Mr. Santos cares about you.”

“No, he doesn’t. Conrad Santos doesn’t even know me. He needs me to play a junkie in his next film. Bring some real experience to the role. My agent already told me.”

Olivia’s tongue darted out to dampen her upper lip, and she paused for a few seconds before lifting a shoulder. “Maybe you’re right. But there are many actresses who can play an addict authentically. He’s not the kind of man to ask for a favor. Maybe you can connect the dots. Or not. Either way, I’m willing to work with you.”

“I don’t want you to ‘work’ with me.” Chase crooked her fingers in quotation marks.

This made Olivia frown. Chase found she liked making Olivia frown. She looked less robotic, less composed. More real. A few seconds ticked by before Olivia stood and said, “Okay, then. Hope all goes well here.”

The woman started for the door.