They’d been going strong for over ten hours, and Elle was contemplating skipping the scene until the next day. After all, it was a tricky one, and she worried Gina might be too exhausted to nail the emotion required to pull it off.

Rob shook his head and Elle tilted hers, looking at him over her wire-rimmed glasses.

“What?” she asked, crossing her arms in front of her chest as her knee bobbed up and down.

“You’re too hard on her.”

“I disagree.” Her tone was harsh, dismissive.

“She can handle it, Elle. She always does.”

Gina was a good actress. In fact, most of the time, Elle thought she was the perfect match for the character. But there were specific scenes that gave Elle pause. Those were the scenes based on him. Based on the man who had inspired the entire concept for Follow the Sun. The man who had left her heart wounded and exposed.

In the quiet moments, the thoughtful moments, the moments when Elle could tune out the noise of Hollywood, she let her mind drift back to the chapel in Las Vegas. To the man whose heart she had broken, who then stifled hers in retaliation.

Their love affair was her inspiration.

Her muse.

The hidden scar that sat tucked beneath her chest.

And because she didn’t know where he was, having avoided social media like the plague, and because he might be sitting on a couch somewhere, snuggling up to a girlfriend or wife who insisted they watch her show week after week, Elle knew those scenes needed to be just right. Every last one.

If he was watching, he had to know she was strong, that she didn’t need him—or anyone, for that matter—to make her whole, fulfilled, or satisfied.

And that, despite the scar, her heart was, and would continue to be, just fine.

Thick, white buttercream frosting covered the tips of Elle’s fingernails. She popped each finger in her mouth for one last lick and savored the sugary-sweet, intoxicating taste of celebration.

Solo celebration.

Aside from Linus, her sweet terrier, who lay next to her on the couch, and the soothing sound of her beloved Beatles in the background, Elle was celebrating her birthday alone. Her parents raised her on Beatles records, and they quickly became the soundtrack of her life. She listened to different albums for different moods, and her birthday was no exception. She was thirty-five years old and single. And for reasons all her own, she preferred to commemorate this day completely by herself.

Ten years ago, on this very day, she had married. But it didn’t last long.

Thirty-six hours, to be precise.

Because of that impulsive decision, her birthday would be forever linked to him. She didn’t speak his name, especially since moving to California. No one knew him here, their past, their history. Their mutual friends and classmates knew not to bring up his name or ask how long it had been since she’d seen him. She was able to control her curiosity if no one mentioned him. If she caved and learned about his life, inevitably she’d learn he’d moved on when she still could not.

And she preferred it that way.

Her best friend, Whitney, the casting director for Follow the Sun, simply referred to him as “Vegas,” knowing that Elle couldn’t handle discussing her past with Troy Saladino. Even her best friend was on a need-to-know basis about that chapter in her life.

“That was delicious,” Elle said, wiping her mouth and hands with a napkin. She then placed the cupcake liner back into the box from Sprinkles Cupcakes. “Totally worth the money.”

Linus peeked out from the nook he’d created in the pillow next to Elle and tipped his little head to the side.

Elle shrugged before petting him on his snout and giggling. “Okay, fine, maybe not.”

Her laptop beckoned from across the room. She needed to get a head start on the new season, but the impending love scene between Desmond and Molly was stressing her out. She and the network rarely agreed on a suitable level of steam for prime-time television. Elle was all about pushing the envelope, allowing her characters to act on their sexual impulses in what Rob, her director, called “interesting” locales such as utility closets, parking garages, and even a hotel day spa. But the resistance she received often muzzled her creativity. “Do you think I should write that love scene, Linus?”

Linus tipped his head to the side again, looking adorable. She loved when he did that.

“I didn’t think so.” She smiled. “No one likes working on their birthday.”

Elle laughed and reached for the Entertainment Weekly on her coffee table. She smiled as she stared at the cover, savoring the photo of Gina and Nolan, standing back-to-back, with arms crossed. Pride stretched from her head to her feet, knowing her characters were sitting on thousands of coffee tables across the country. Her characters. Her show. Her creation. For just a moment, her normal birthday sadness drifted away as she paged through the magazine and landed on the article devoted completely to Follow the Sun. Her moment was interrupted when her purse began to ring. She retrieved her cell phone and reluctantly answered the call.

“This is Elle,” she said, pressing the phone to her ear.

“Elle, listen, it’s Rob. We’re having a little trouble down at the studio. Any chance you can come down and help us out?”

Elle resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Rob was a terrible liar. Between the cracking and hesitation lingering in his voice, all signs pointed to some sort of surprise birthday celebration at the studio. Which was nice. Really nice, actually.

But she didn’t want to be around anyone. She wanted to waste away in her own disconnected memories, which had become a tradition over the years. Elle listened to the Beatles’ Revolver album while wallowing in her memories of Troy—the years they’d spent together both as friends and lovers. Over and over again, she replayed the sweet moments as well as the ones that brought nothing but sadness and regret. Despite the pain, it was comforting somehow—as if her memories, and the songs that played in the background, kept them connected. She was listening to the album for a second time when Rob’s call came through.

Elle decided to push the issue, to see how far she could take it. “Um . . . I’m already in my comfies. Any chance we can do this in the morning?”

Rob paused, and then the connection grew muffled. Elle smiled, knowing he’d covered the phone to talk to another conspirator.

“Just get over here,” another voice chimed in, this one feminine, yet snippy . . . and all too familiar. Whitney.

“I knew it,” Elle said, shaking her head, petting Linus as he rubbed up against her leg, and hoping Whitney wouldn’t recognize the album in the background. Revolver, although it was her favorite album, was the album that made her think the most of Troy. “You know I don’t like to make a big deal out of this.”

Whitney sighed. “I know, and it isn’t, I promise. Just get down here.”

“Fine, give me twenty.”

“I’ll do you one better. Take thirty.”

“Wow, feeling generous?” Elle said, placing her pumps, one by one, back onto her tired feet.

“Nah. Waiting on the food delivery.”

“I already ate,” Elle whined.

“Tough.” Whitney snapped, “And run a comb through your hair.”

“I resent that,” Elle responded, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She did look disheveled after a long day at the studio. Her normally curly blonde locks were flat to the sides of her face. She grimaced, gazing at her reflection. “But whatever, fine, I’ll be there in a half hour.”