“When Owen kisses you, does he taste like oranges, too?” Sloan Mercer held a bright orange segment between two manicured fingers as though she had asked whether I wanted cream in my coffee. I was propped up in a private hospital bed at Cedars-Sinai, less than twenty-four hours out of vocal-cord surgery, forbidden to speak and still weak enough that lifting a glass of water required concentration. Yet that one question cut through the medication haze more cleanly than any surgeon’s scalpel.

Chapter 1

Before I could react, the door opened and Owen Hayes walked in. He tucked the blanket around my knees with the easy tenderness of a man who believed tenderness could erase evidence. “The director threw in a kiss yesterday,” he said. “Last-minute change. I forgot to tell you.”

Sloan popped the orange into her mouth and smiled. “Seven takes. Can you believe it? Neither of us had ever done a real screen kiss before.”

Owen looked at me.

Sloan looked at Owen.

Neither of them was nearly as good an actor as they imagined.

Three years earlier, when Owen and I had been two struggling performers sharing a drafty Los Angeles apartment, he had made me promise that neither of us would accept intimate scenes. I had laughed at first because acting was acting, but he had been serious. He said Hollywood destroyed relationships one compromise at a time. He held my hands and promised that whatever success came, we would protect what was ours.

I kept that promise long after I became the successful one.

By twenty-eight, I had platinum records, sold-out arenas and enough endorsement contracts to keep a dozen lawyers busy. Owen had talent, but his career moved more slowly. Whenever my success made him uncomfortable, I made myself smaller. I turned down opportunities that would keep me overseas too long. I refused music videos he considered too sensual. I introduced him to casting directors, coaches and producers while pretending those introductions had nothing to do with why doors suddenly opened for him.

Then a severe vocal-cord polyp stopped my career cold.

For a singer, losing your voice is like a pianist losing feeling in both hands. Doctors warned me that surgery offered an excellent chance of recovery, but no one could promise my voice would sound the same afterward. Rumors spread before I had even signed the surgical consent forms. My label kept me home while my manager, Megan Cole, fought off advertisers and reporters.

During that month, Owen landed his first major television lead.

His costar was Sloan.

I had met Sloan years earlier when she was a hungry young actress stealing dinner rolls from a low-budget music-video catering table because she couldn’t afford groceries. Instead of reporting her, I hired her for my next video. Then another. I recommended her to directors, brought her into sponsorship campaigns and watched proudly as she climbed.

Owen used to distrust her.

“She’s using you,” he once warned me. “People like that don’t love the ladder. They love whoever happens to be standing above them.”

Somewhere along the way, his opinion changed.

By the time my surgery approached, Sloan and Owen had developed their own language of glances and inside jokes. They cooked together in my kitchen while I sat silently on the couch resting my voice. At dinner, they discussed their show while I stared at a separate bowl of bland soup prepared for my throat. When spicy broth spilled into it, ruining the only thing I could comfortably eat, Owen barely noticed.

I went to bed.

Later, he stood outside the locked bedroom door and told me I owed Sloan an apology for making her feel unwelcome.

A week afterward, he called to say production had become a disaster and he couldn’t leave the set to come to my surgery.

An hour later, someone sent me a video.

It showed Owen and Sloan kissing.

There was nothing technical about it. They were lost in each other so completely that they continued after the director called cut. Crew members laughed and cheered. Beneath the video, the anonymous sender had written a cruel message suggesting my surgery should fail so Owen and Sloan could become a real couple.

That night, I wrote Owen a long message. I asked why he had broken our promise, why he had lied, why he had chosen a television set over the hospital room where I might lose the career that had supported both of us.

Then I deleted every word.

Sometimes an explanation is necessary because you don’t understand what happened.

Sometimes the explanation is unnecessary because you finally do.

Now, sitting in that hospital room, I watched Sloan peel another orange. Owen had always hated citrus. Sloan loved it.

When Owen leaned closer to ask how I was feeling, I smelled orange and peppermint on his breath.

He had changed what he tasted like for her.

Sloan touched his sleeve. “Sadie isn’t going to be childish about one little acting kiss, are you?”

They began explaining at the same time. Owen blamed the director. Sloan blamed the producers. Their stories collided, and for half a second they stared at each other with irritation.

I reached for my phone and typed a message to my assistant.

Get them out.

Before she could act, Sloan checked her watch. “We have a network call. Owen, we should go.”

Owen hesitated theatrically. “Maybe I should stay.”

Sloan caught his arm. “She needs rest. Come on.”

I lifted one hand and pointed toward the door.

Owen looked almost offended by how easily I let him leave. He placed a thermos beside my bed and promised he would return that night.

The door closed behind them.

Twenty minutes later, Megan arrived wearing a wrist brace and the exhausted expression of a woman who had spent weeks wrestling reporters. She explained that competitors were already trying to poach my endorsement deals. Then she asked what I wanted to do about Owen.

I wrote three words on my pad.

End it today.

Megan stared at me.

Then she grinned.

“You’re serious.”

I nodded.

Her expression changed from exhaustion to something almost frighteningly energetic. “Then I have a question. How do you feel about becoming an actress?”

I frowned.

Megan leaned forward. “Nicholas Vance is making The Winter Garden with Leo Ward. They need a woman who can carry half a movie without speaking.”

She tapped my hospital chart.

“And for the next month, sweetheart, you can’t say a word.”