The hotel suite is quiet in a way New York never is. City noise muffled behind thick glass, lights of Manhattan flickering like they’re waiting for her decision too.

Olivia sits on the edge of the bed, phone buzzing nonstop beside her. Her manager. Directors. Producers. Tabloids. Everyone wants something from her.

Except you.

You stand near the window, watching her chew the inside of her cheek—her tell when she’s overwhelmed.

She finally exhales and looks at you.

“I got the part,” she says softly. “The one I told you about. The big one. The franchise.”

You force a smile. “Liv, that’s amazing.”

She doesn’t smile back.

“Filming is eight months,” she continues. “London. Tokyo. Dubai. Back-to-back. I’d barely get to breathe.” Her eyes flick to you. “I’d barely get to see you.”

You take a step closer. “We can make it work.”

“Can we?” she whispers. “Every time I leave, something breaks. And every time I come back, I feel like there’s less of me left.”

You’ve seen it happen—how fame eats at her, piece by piece, smile by smile.

Olivia picks up her phone, staring at the screen like it’s both her dream and her prison.

“My whole life,” she says, voice trembling, “I’ve been choosing what the world wants from me. The fans. The agencies. The press. Even Gossip Girl.” She laughs weakly. “I never learned how to choose me.”

You sit beside her. Close. Not touching yet.

“What does choosing you look like?” you ask gently.

She turns to you, eyes shining with fear and something like hope.

“I don’t know.” A pause. “I just know I’m tired.”

The phone buzzes again.

She flinches.

You reach out, covering her hand—not grabbing, just grounding. “Whatever you choose… I support you. Even if it’s not me.”

Her breath catches.

“You always say the one thing that makes this harder,” she murmurs.

Silence stretches—soft, fragile.