The car pulled up to the club at half past eight.
Arianne sat in the backseat, her phone in her hand. Sam's message was open on the screen: Back booth. The one with the velvet. We started without you. There was a wine glass emoji. There was a purple heart. Sam had been texting like a teenager since she wrapped filming, giddy and unguarded in a way she rarely let herself be.
Mira was in the front passenger seat. Behind them, a second car idled — three more bodyguards, the standard detail since the press conference, since the lawsuits, since Arianne's face had become public currency. She'd grown used to the shadow. It was easier than she'd expected.
"We were followed."
Mira's voice was calm. She didn't turn around.
"Three women. They picked us up outside Rochefort Group. They've been taking pictures since you left the building."
Arianne pocketed her phone. "Paparazzi?"
