Page 2 of Gunnar

Someone else gestures toward the press area, but before I can move farther, a stagehand approaches, carrying an enormous bouquet of flowers. Bright pink proteas. My favorite. They are stunning, dramatic bursts of vivid pink surrounded by glossy greenery, and for one fragile second, emotion swells warmly inside my chest all over again.

“Oh,” I say softly, adjusting the Oscar against my hip so I can take them carefully. “These are beautiful.”

The stage technician smiles awkwardly. “Someone was prepared for you to win.”

I glance down at the bouquet, my brows furrowing slightly in confusion. “Who are they from?”

“Sorry. I was just told to give them to you,” he mutters with an apologetic shrug. He takes one step before reaching into his pocket. “Oh—and this.”

He extends a small cream-colored envelope toward me, and the second I take it, a cold chill prickles down my spine. The roaring backstage noise dulls instantly around me, completely drowned out by the sudden racing of my heart. A strange unease crawls over my skin as I slide one finger beneath the seal and open it carefully. I pull out a thick card, and the air leaves my lungs so violently it feels like I’ve been punched in the gut.

Congratulations, my love.

There are no words to describe how much you deserved this.

Soon, we will be together, and we can celebrate.

—X

No.

My fingers tighten around the card hard enough to bend it.

No… Not here.

Not tonight.

The blood drains from my face as recognition crashes through me with a sickening force. I know the handwriting. Every muscle in my body locks as memories slam into me in jagged fragments: letters shoved beneath my apartment door, photographs taken from impossible angles, and futile attempts to obtain a restraining order for a man who is essentially a ghost.

Soon, we will be together, and we can celebrate.

My stomach twists violently. What if he’s here? The realization settles over me like being doused in ice water. The Dolby Theatre suddenly feels enormous and claustrophobic at once. My skin prickles with the awful certainty that somewhere nearby, someone is watching me. The worst part has always been how intimately he seems to know me. The letters never sound random or incoherent. They sound affectionate, devoted, and possessive in a way that makes my skin crawl.

My favorite flowers. Of course he knows them.

I force myself to look up. Swallowing hard against the panic clawing its way into my throat, I manage to choke, “Where did these come from?”

“I’m sorry?” The stagehand stares back at me blankly.

“Where did these come from?” I ask more insistently, unable to hide the panic in my voice.

His brows pinch together, and he shrugs. “The delivery table, I think.”

“When?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe twenty minutes ago?”

Twenty minutes. My heart hammers painfully hard against my ribcage. He could still be inside the building.

I force myself not to panic visibly. Years in Hollywood have taught me how to perform through almost anything—grief, humiliation, and fear. Just smile through it and keep moving. Years of training have nothing on this moment, though; my hands are shaking despite my best efforts to still them.

After folding the note in my fist, I tighten my grip on the Oscar and whisper, “I need security.”

“That’s not my job, Miss Mart⁠—”

“Now. I need them now.” The stagehand straightens immediately at something in my tone, the color draining from his face as he nods quickly and disappears down the hallway.

I remain standing there, alone beneath the harsh backstage lights, clutching my award in one hand and the bouquet of proteas in the other while applause echoes faintly from the stage beyond the curtains.