You had always known your place.

It was beside Evelyn Hugo—but not with her.

As her assistant, your name was barely whispered in the glimmering orbit of Hollywood. You organized her press runs, handled her divorce paperwork like it was just another line item on the day’s agenda, and kept her secrets wrapped in silk and silence. You were everything she needed. Except seen.

You met Celia St. James on Evelyn’s second film under Sunset Studios. Back then, she was all sunshine and sharp wit, with a laugh that seemed too innocent to survive Hollywood. You hadn’t expected her to look at you. Really look. But she did.

“I like your shoes,” she said the first time. A silly compliment. But it stayed with you longer than it should have.

Over the years, Celia became something of a constant ghost in your life—a radiant shadow that always lingered behind Evelyn. You watched them fight. Reconcile. Disappear into dressing rooms and emerge with unreadable faces. You loved Evelyn, yes—but it was Celia who made your chest ache.

You would have buried the feeling forever. You tried.

But then Celia left.

She called you—not Evelyn—three days after the split.

Her voice was hoarse, like she hadn’t spoken aloud in hours. “I don’t know why I called,” she said.

“I do,” you whispered. “You needed someone who would answer.”

You met her at a quiet bar in West Hollywood, where no one paid attention to two women nursing martinis in the back corner. She was wrapped in a trench coat too large for her frame, blonde curls tucked under a silk scarf, eyes bloodshot but proud. Always proud.

“I’m not asking for sympathy,” Celia said before you’d even sat down. “Just a conversation where I don’t have to pretend I’m not crumbling.”

And so you talked. Or rather, she did—and you listened. She told you everything. How Evelyn kissed her one night and pushed her away the next. How fame had become a third person in their bed. How it hurt more because she’d believed Evelyn would finally choose her, completely.

“I always thought she loved me more than the spotlight,” Celia murmured. “But maybe I was wrong.”

You didn’t say what you wanted to say.

You didn’t say I wouldn’t have made you choose.

The calls became weekly. Then nightly.

Sometimes Celia would cry softly over the phone. Sometimes she just asked you to talk—about nothing at all. What you were reading. What you cooked for dinner. Once, she asked you to sing her a lullaby from your childhood because she couldn’t sleep.

Then, one night, after a particularly long silence, she said: “You know I used to think you hated me.”