Page 1 of Gunnar

“And this year’s nominees are…”

The pause seems to drag on forever.

It stretches through the packed auditorium in one long, agonizing breath, soaking into every glittering corner of the Dolby Theatre while the audience waits for the final verdict. The chandeliers overhead cast a soft golden glow across rows of diamonds, sequined gowns, and silk-lapeled tuxedos. The collective anticipation around me is nearly palpable, and I can’t help but think that beyond the blinding stage lights, millions of people are also watching at home.

My fingers wrap around the arm of my chair so tightly I’m surprised I don’t break a nail. If they don’t announce this soon, I might actually combust in my seat.

Beside me, Colton Cross shifts toward me and flashes me a grin so polished it belongs on a billboard. Which is probably why his gorgeous face is on half the billboards in Hollywood. He’s the newest it guy, booking any project he wants and has women fawning over his rather impressive jawline. He’s my date for the evening, because our agent thought being seen together would be good for publicity.

Unfortunately, no amount of exemplary genetics or expensive tailoring can disguise the fact that the man smells like he has never once considered the practical applications of soap or deodorant. Beneath the five-figure, custom-tailored tuxedo is the unmistakable scent of stale sweat. It should be a crime to look that good and smell like a dumpster in July.

He leans closer, resting his hand lightly over my bare arm. My eyes water from the rancid odor radiating from him as he confidently whispers, “You’ve got this.”

“Thanks.” I force myself to smile politely, even though his personality has all the flavor of a stale, unsalted cracker. Right about now, I would love an actual stale cracker to help calm my nausea.

“And when you win, we can go to my place to celebrate.” Fat chance.

Onstage, the presenter drags out the suspense with practiced ease, smiling at the audience as the camera sweeps over the other nominees and me one final time. My face appears on the giant screen behind her, alongside the other actresses in my category. Five women, all with extraordinary performances, who carried entire films on their backs in an industry that demands perfection.

My nerves are so jittery that I suddenly feel like I’m fifteen years old again, standing outside a tiny casting office in Los Angeles, with cheap makeup melting off my face in the summer heat. I remember every producer who didn’t think I was good enough and every executive who suggested I “show a little more skin” while “talking a little less.” The meager roles I did manage were flanked by waitressing shifts, sometimes doubles, and rehearsing monologues in the bathroom mirror on breaks. Even for the biopic role of May Britt for tonight’s awards—after a decade of successful films—I was deemed too pretty to be taken seriously.

“And the Oscar goes to…” The presenter opens the envelope, and my heart pounds so hard that my ears whoosh with each beat. When she pulls out the card, I’m certain time—and my heart—stops entirely as I wait for her lips to move. “Devyn Martin, for Mr. & Mrs. Davis!”

The theater explodes, applause crashing over me in a deafening wave as everyone around me surges to their feet. Tears flood my eyes, obscuring my vision, and I stare blankly at the stage. I won. Oh my fucking God. I won. I actually won.

Colton grabs my arm enthusiastically. “Baby, you did it!” He leans toward me, clearly aiming for a—very unwanted—congratulatory kiss.

I rise quickly from my seat to dodge him, tangling myself in the hem of my gown in the process. Don’t trip! The two words scream through my thoughts with humiliating intensity as my heel briefly catches the fabric. If I flop in the aisle upon winning my first Oscar, the clip will live online forever—compilations, slow-motion edits, and reaction videos will be my legacy.

By some miracle, I manage to steady myself. After lifting my chin and rolling back my shoulders, I move down the aisle, the cameras following each graceful step. The entire theater feels strangely unreal amongst the flood of adrenaline surging through my body. Famous faces blur together around me, smiling and clapping, while people reach out to squeeze my hands as I pass.

The stairs leading to the podium suddenly look impossibly steep beneath the glare of the spotlights. I grip the railing carefully as I climb, forcing myself not to rush. Every step feels momentous, and reaching the top is like summiting Everest. After I cross the stage with a smile, the presenter grins at me warmly as she hands me the surprisingly heavy statue.

The moment it settles in my palms, I nearly fall apart. Emotion slams into me with startling force. Fifteen years of auditions, rejection, humiliation, sacrifice, and relentless determination crash together inside my chest. I think about the tiny apartment I could barely afford at nineteen, memorizing lines during waitressing shifts, crying in my car after callbacks that went nowhere, and every single time I almost gave up.

By the time I step toward the microphone, my throat is already tight, and tears are threatening to spill over my lashes. The applause slowly fades into silence. “Oh my God,” I breathe, and nervous chuckles ripples through the audience. I look at the Oscar in my hands, trying to gather my thoughts while my pulse races wildly beneath my skin.

“I had a whole speech prepared, but the second they said my name, my brain completely stopped functioning.” The audience titters again, softer this time, and some of the tension eases from my shoulders. “When I was fifteen years old, like a dreamer, I told my mom I was going to win one of these someday.” My voice wavers. “And she said, ‘That’s wonderful, sweetheart, but maybe apply to college, too, just in case.’”

Warm laughter spreads across the room. I smile through the tears gathering in my eyes before taking a careful breath.

“I have spent fifteen years fighting to be in rooms that were never really built for women like me: Outspoken women. Ambitious women. Emotional women.”

The auditorium falls quiet.

“I’ve been told I’m intimidating. I’ve been told I care too much. I’ve been told to smile more, talk less, and be grateful for whatever scraps I’m given. I’ve watched brilliant women work twice as hard for half the recognition, while people called them difficult for simply wanting the same respect men automatically receive.” A murmur of applause moves through the auditorium as I glance toward the other nominees seated below the stage, emotion tightening my chest. “And the women in this category tonight,” I continue softly, “you are all beyond extraordinary. Truly. Your performances inspired me, and being nominated beside you is one of the greatest honors of my life.”

One of them presses a hand over her heart while another wipes away her eyes. I swallow hard against the lump in my throat. “This award means everything to me, but more than that, I hope every little girl watching tonight understands that they are allowed to take up space. They are allowed to be loud about their dreams. They are allowed to want success and power and recognition without apologizing for it.” The applause grows louder, and a laugh escapes me through my tears. “Be fearless with your ambition and take up the space you deserve.”

The audience erupts now, and I shake my head slightly, overwhelmed by it all before forcing myself to finish. “And finally, to everyone who supported Mr. & Mrs. Davis, thank you. To the fans who believed in me long before Hollywood did, this belongs to you, too. You gave me a career, you gave me a voice, and I will never stop being grateful for that.” My throat closes completely around the final words. “I love you all.”

The orchestra begins to swell beneath the applause as I step away from the microphone, tears slipping freely down my cheeks. Professional makeup be damned, I let them fall because I earned this moment. The applause in the theater follows me offstage like thunder, my entire body rattling as I tremble with adrenaline.

The second I disappear behind the curtain, the atmosphere instantly shifts from the glamorous televised spectacle to organized chaos. Crew members hurry through the narrow hallways carrying clipboards and muttering into their radios while stage lights cast everything in harsh gold and blue shadows.

A woman wearing a headset beams at me as I pass. “Congratulations!”

“Thank you,” I manage breathlessly.