She nods, so I go ahead and give her an edited version of the truth. Which is how, “I was meeting privately with Ridley Scott to discuss his next movie, but the paps busted us,” becomes, “I had a meeting about a project I’d like to keep under wraps, but a bunch of people I’ve worked with in the past appeared in the lobby. Small world, huh?” I try to be casual. “And I couldn’t have them see me here today. Hence the closet.”

“Secret meeting?” She frowns. “Sounds shady.”

I smile. “More confidential, really. What about you?”

“I… I…” She starts the phrase multiple times before collapsing in another fit of sobs. “I’m s-sorry…”

“No, it’s okay… err… What’s your name?”

“Lana,” she says, blows her nose, then looks at me expectantly. “And you?”

Unbelievable. She really has no idea who I am. Not to sound arrogant or anything, but I haven’t had to introduce myself to anyone in, well, forever.

“Christian,” I say. “Christian Slade.”

No reaction. Zero recognition in her eyes. Well, that’s new and one hundred percent unexpected. Anonymity doesn’t happen to me—ever. People know who I am. Everyone does, especially women. My face has been on the front page of practically every tabloid, magazine, and online publication in the world. The city is plastered with posters of me, I’m on the side of buses, on billboards and digital screens… and, yet, this woman has no clue who she’s talking to.

“Hi, Christian.” Lana cracks a small smile and, wow, her entire face transforms. “Sorry for breaking down on you. Not my best day.”

Lana reaches into her bag for a stainless steel bottle and takes a small sip.

“You want some water?” she offers.

“No, thanks. I’m good.”

I’m not thirsty, but I’m dying to know what’s going on with this woman. But it doesn’t feel right to pressure her to share. The last thing she needs right now is a nosy stranger. So I watch Lana as she drinks, unlocks the phone in her lap, and stares at the screen for an eternity without uttering a single word. When the display goes dark on its own, a fresh flood of tears rolls down her cheeks.

“Can I do anything for you?”

She sniffles. “Could you check if there are tissues somewhere in here?” She shows me the crumpled white paper in her hands. “This was my last one.”

I get up, search the shelves for a box of Kleenex, and hand it to her.

“Thanks.” Lana lets out a bittersweet chuckle. “At least I won’t run out of wipes.” She noisily blows her nose again.

“Are you planning on staying here long?”

“I’m not leaving until they do.” She points a finger at the dark screen in her lap.

“Who’s they?”

“My boyfriend and my best friend,” she says.

Bloody hell.