The air backstage was a familiar cocktail of stale coffee, hairspray, and the low-frequency hum of a thousand watts of electricity. I stood in the shadows, a ghost in a tailored black suit, watching my husband on a bank of monitors. His name was Adrian Thorne, and tonight, he was Hollywood’s golden boy, the frontrunner for Best Actor, charming the nation on the most-watched late-night show.
Next to him, bathed in the adoring glow of the studio lights, was Vivian Reed. His co-star, his on-screen lover, and the woman whose specter had haunted every day of my five-year marriage.
The host, a man whose manufactured laughter I could replicate in my sleep, leaned in conspiratorially. "Adrian, the chemistry between you and Vivian is just… electric. The internet is convinced it’s real. So, I have
