I quickly flick off the screen. Imogen Lovelace is the creator of the Save Amara initiative and didn’t even tell me? It all makes sense though. Her giving me that pin yesterday in the restroom. Speaking out on the panel.

Wanting to be me.

Everything’s fine, I remind myself. Ethan won’t let her do anything. But the other half of my brain is screaming that my worst enemy is running around pretending to be me. And I can’t do anything about it. Not right now.

Because at any moment the next scene could be leaked, maybe a page with my name in the corner and an irreparable spoiler that will get me blacklisted from every studio in Hollywood. Not to mention that I’ll get sued for violating my NDA, doxxed by angry nerds. And I’m stuck here wasting time at her ridiculous #SaveAmara booth!

What if Diana drops me?

What if I never—

Stop. Breathe.

After she finishes her burrito, Harper looks over at me. “Are you okay? You seem a little…”

Weird? Different? Not who you thought your internet friend was?

I wonder briefly how Imogen and Harper met in the first place.

A pretty big clue is the copious amount of fanart of Princess Amara in the arms of various characters—men and women—that hangs on the corkboard behind us. The prints on the table tout pairings from Steven Universe and Voltron and Harry Potter and some video-game artwork with a guy in a twirly mustache and bull-looking humanoid creature. And me. Have I mentioned there are drawings of me? Well, me as Princess Amara, but still. I’m sure I don’t understand any of it. Why is everyone into these bizarre pairings?

“Okay, so fess up. You’re secretly a Caruci shipper, aren’t you?”

“A what?”

“Carmindor and Euci. The slash. Don’t play coy. I’ve been watching you check out my artwork. I thought you were a Carminara girl.”

A…what?

“Carine?” she goes on. “Zoruchi? Amaruci? Zomara? Oh please say it isn’t so.” And then, as if a secret question, “Sondara?”

Is she speaking in tongues?

“I…ah…”

“You can hide behind your Carmindor and Amara, but I see you.” As if that settles things, she pulls out a sketchbook and a mechanical pencil from her bag and then turns to a page with a half-finished drawing of two men in Sailor Scout uniforms. She looks up, her dark eyes rimmed with kohl and gold. I feel naked without my makeup. Unprotected.

Come on, you’re an Oscar-nominated actress. Play your role!

“I’m Carminara all the way,” I reply smoothly, pushing Ethan’s glasses up the bridge of my nose like I’d seen him do a thousand times when he’s confident about something. “I…stan Darien.”

I hope Dare never hears me say that out loud.

She laughs, and it sounds like honey.