The Princess and the Fangirl (Once Upon a Con #2)(12)

Jess, breathe.

I answer the phone apprehensively. “Hello?”

A honeyed voice drifts through the speaker like a soothing balm, calm and collected like always. “Hi Jess, how’s your convention going?”

“Ah…good?”

“Good. I heard about the interview.”

Oh. In the stress of what happened at the panel, I’d forgotten about the interview. And Natalia Ford. “I—I’m sorry. It’s just that I—”

“Don’t worry, it’s fine. Natalia’s agent and I go way back. She explained to Natalia that you’ve had a difficult few weeks. Natalia is fine with it, but we have to make sure that when the interview releases, we have a statement prepared.”

I close my eyes and sigh. “I’m so sorry, Diana.”

“I know you’ve been stressed, and this is what I’m here for.”

I nod even though she can’t see me and anxiously worm a fingernail into my thumb cuticle. “I hate to ask but—have you heard anything about the indie film that I auditioned for?”

She gives a long sigh. “I was hoping to tell you after the convention, but I’m sorry. The shooting schedules for the Starfield sequel and The Red Grove compete too closely for the clause in your Starfield contract. You won’t be able to do both.”

Hearing that feels like a punch in the gut. “But I’m not in the sequel! As far as I’ve heard, the script’s not finalized yet—and even if it is, I can’t be in a lot of it, right? I’ll be in a—a flashback or a—a—something. I can do both. It’ll be easy—”

“Jessica.”

My rebuttal freezes on my tongue. I sink into a cold, dread-filled silence. After a moment I ask, my voice tiny, “That’s not the only reason, is it?”

Diana is quiet.

“It’s because of Starfield, isn’t it? Because it’s doing so well—”

She tries to interrupt, “You have duties to the sequel.”

“It is because of Starfield, then. Because it’s doing too well, or because I’m no longer an indie darling, or because—”

“The director thought you were no longer a good fit for the role,” Diana finally admits, and it feels like an arrow through my chest, puncturing my heart, and sliding out the other side, so painful I can barely breathe.

I feel my bottom lip tremble. The Red Grove was supposed to be my break back into real films, a lifeline to saving my artistic integrity. I’ve read the script. It’s decent. What’s more is that I know it’d be a lot better fit for me than playing some dead flashback princess in a subpar sequel.

“I know this feels like a huge setback, but I promise you’ll have other roles. Everyone adores you in Starfield. Conan O’Brien loved you when you went on his show! Jimmy Fallon! We’re even in talks to host Saturday Night Live. Amon thinks you were a great Princess Amara, Jessica.”

Well, tell that to the comments piling up on my Instagram and my Twitter feed, I think bitterly.

I only signed that contract because I was told it would be a one-off. A nice popcorn flick to populate my repertoire, to show off my action as well as my acting chops. Diana wasn’t wrong, but neither of us thought they would hold the sequel script this long without telling me my fate.

We never expected Starfield to be much of anything. And now it’s my entire world. One that I can’t seem to escape from, no matter how hard I try.

I’m about to spill everything—about the social media comments, the threats—when there’s a beep on her phone. She says quickly, “Listen, I have to go, but please don’t let any of this worry you. Try to have some fun! It’s ExcelsiCon! Talk to you soon!”

The line goes dead with a click and I’m left listening to silence.

You didn’t get the part, the self-deprecating voice inside me whispers as I drop the phone onto the bed. You didn’t get it because you’re Amara, and you’ll be Amara for the rest of your life.

Ethan’s been leaning against the doorway to the bathroom, adjusting and readjusting his smartwatch. He’s washed his face and put on a plain white T-shirt, tucked into his slacks. He doesn’t need to say anything for me to know that he heard—and understood—the whole thing.

Tears brim in my eyes, but I bite the side of my cheek to hold myself together. Ethan is my best friend, but Jessica Stone only cries when it’s scripted. Yet the longer I sit there and the longer he messes with his stupid watch, the harder it is for me to stop my lips from quivering.

“I think we need coffee,” he says, even though it’s almost 6:30 p.m. He grabs his wallet from the coffee table in the living room—yes, our hotel suite has a living room—and heads out. “I’ll be back in a minute. Chai?”

I nod.

It’s only when he closes the door that I take out my phone, log onto my socials, and read the comments. All the bad ones, because those seem to be the only ones that get through. They stick to me like glue, clinging to my skin—

what a joke

she’s the worst amara!! So glad she died

I can tell her where she can put those pretty lips

fixed her chest small titties lol [censored photo]

hope she chokes and dies on all the money she got

sell out

#notourprincess