“Ow!” he shouts out.

Plunking back down on the fluffy bed, he removes one of the slippers and gives it a little shake. His face brightens with an ear-to-ear grin.

“Look what I just found!” He holds up the cufflink.

“Phew! Thank, God,” I say with a loud sigh of relief. I leap to my feet.

He winks at me. “Here. Try again.”

Before he can hand it to me, I draw in another sharp breath and, on the exhale, tell him the truth. “Brandon, I have a confession. I don’t know a damn thing about cufflinks.” With my help or without it, he may not be wearing his lucky charms. A resurgence of guilt mixes with despair.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll do them myself.”

What!?

My eyes almost pop out of their sockets as I watch him yank the splints off his fingers and fling them across the room.

“B-but—”

“My fingers are just fine now,” he says as he fastens the cufflinks with ease.

For the second time tonight, my mouth crashes to the floor and I can’t get a word to form. Finally, while he adjusts his bow tie around his collar, my mouth moves.

“Why the hell—”

He cuts me off. “Because I was having too much fun with you. I liked having you feed me and dress me.”

I want to kill him! The asshole—make that, the sadistic bastard—tricked me. Played me for a patsy. He’s done a lot of things to piss me off, but nothing comes close to this. I’m humiliated and furious. My blood is curdling. Did I tell you how much I really, really want to kill him?? His voice hurls me out of my treacherous thoughts.

“How do I look?” Smiling, he makes a final adjustment to his bow tie. The rich purple color turns his eyes an even deeper shade of violet. Two sparkling amethysts.

Holy hotness! My heart flutters and my pussy pulses. I’m melting like a popsicle. He looks breathtaking. Devastating. Sexy as sin. Every bit the big star he is.

“Y-you look…beautiful.” So, so, beautiful. I think I’m going to die.

He flicks my chin, and the very touch of him brings me closer to my inevitable demise. A glint in his eyes and a small grateful smile light up his face. “Thanks, Zoey.”

Before I can reply, I hear a car pull into the driveway. He hears it too.

“That must be my limo.”

With a sinking heart, I follow him into the living room. It takes another nosedive at the sight of Katrina. Clad in a body-hugging sparkly gown in an eye-catching shade of coral, she looks like a goddess. Her golden hair cascades over her shoulders like a shimmering cape and an array of glittering diamonds light her up like the glimmering North Star. She completely ignores me. It’s as if I don’t exist.

She grabs Brandon’s hand. “Come on, darling, let’s go. I don’t want to miss one red carpet opportunity.”

“Good luck tonight, Brandon,” I say, meaning it from the bottom of my heart. Yet, every word’s an effort.

He looks over his shoulder as Katrina hurls him toward the door. Our eyes connect. I swear there are sparks flying between us. The ache in my core is palpable.

His eyes never leave mine as he quirks a small melancholic smile. “Thanks, Zoey. Look for me on TV.”

Fighting back tears, I simply nod. They disappear, and after a forlorn sigh, I hear the limo pull away.

I slump down onto the couch and bury my head between my hands. I feel like poor Cinderella, left behind for the ball. Except Cinderella was way better off. At least she had a couple of cute mice to hang out with to cheer her up along with a trusty fairy godmother to make her dreams come true. Bippity-boppity-boo.

Brandon

Flash! My eyes flutter madly. My head hurts. I’m having a memory breakthrough. I remember something and silently curse. I hate this shit. It’s a goddamn circus. A media frenzy. The part of being a megastar that I despise. Our limo pulls up to the entrance of the Beverly Hilton, and even before we step out of the car, paparazzi storm us. Click! Click! Click! The never-ending flashes blind my eyes and clog my eardrums. I fake a megawatt Hollywood smile when really what I want to do is smash each and every one of these assholes’ cameras. Wearing Katrina on my arm like a clunky piece of jewelry, the walk of fame down the red carpet feels like an eternity. That’s because my fiancée insists on talking to every E! Entertainment reporter who accosts her and mugging for the paparazzi and glamcams. While zealous fans gathered outside the hotel are roaring “We love you, Bratrina!” and hoping to get a shot of us with their phones, I seriously feel like Mr. Katrina Moore.

A fashion blogger runs up to Katrina. “I love your dress. Who are you wearing?”

“Monique Hervé. She’s also designing my wedding gown.”

“When are the two of you getting married?”

Looking straight into a camera, she spews the date. “Saturday, May twenty-third, six p.m. Pacific Standard Time. Check your local listings and be sure to tune into Celebrity-TV for the special edition of America’s It Girl.”

Flashing a big smile and her ring, she sounds like a walking commercial for our wedding. I want to vomit.

Another female reporter runs up to us. “Bratrina, so glad to have you here. Tell me, Brandon, with your recent accident, did you ever think you’d not see this night?”

“Well—”

Katrina cuts me off. “We always knew this moment would come. I prayed for it every minute while I sat by his bedside in the hospital.”

The reporter’s face turns to mush. “That’s so beautiful I could cry. Oh, and congratulations on your engagement. The best of luck to the both of you.”

We’re stopped yet another time. The bubbly Asian reporter shoves a mike into my face. “Congratulations on your nomination, Brandon. Do you think you’re going to win tonight?”

I shrug my shoulders. “I’m wearing my father’s lucky cufflinks. So there’s a chance.”

Katrina: “Darling, of course you’re going to win.”

“Is there anyone at home you want to say hello to?” the reporter asks.

Katrina grabs the mike. “Hi, Mommy.” She waves. “And Daddy, if you’re watching this from prison, just know I love you.”

I have to say I’m a little touched. The reporter takes the mike and angles it back at me. “And what about you, Brandon?”

Just one person. “Yo, Zoey.” I blow her a kiss. I hope she’s watching and catches it wherever she is.

Katrina shoots me a dirty look. Make that a look that can kill.

Is everyone and their mother nominated for an award? The Emmy’s, now that I remember, are bad enough, but the Golden Globes go on ad nauseam because they cover both motion pictures and television. Oh, and now they even give awards to online shows produced by Amazon and Netflix among others.

The only thing that makes these awards bearable is that you get to eat and drink during the show. Unlike the Emmy’s where you’re trapped for hours in a stadium-sized auditorium downtown, at the Globes, you’re served a full-course gourmet dinner in the expansive but more intimate Beverly Hilton ballroom. The place looks spectacular with dazzling arrangements of flowers on every table and is overflowing with Hollywood glitterati dressed to the hilt. If I had to guess, there must be over two thousand attendees and that’s not counting the press.

Everyone looks like they’re having a blast. A chumminess saturates the room—reminiscent of a camp reunion. Hugs and kisses abound. As we make our way to our table, I’m both astounded and humbled by the number of people who stop to congratulate me and express their relief that I’m okay. Wow! Even De Niro and Scorsese give me man hugs and Glenn Close gives me a big kiss on the cheek. But most I don’t recognize on account of my amnesia. Especially those nominated for all these cable series and movies I can’t recall. Zoey’s briefing only went so far. Sometimes I feel like I’ll never catch up.