Chapter 11 - The Crashing Party
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While my show was coming to a triumphant close, five miles away at the Wilshire Hotel, the official West Coast Preview gala was struggling.
Marcus Brody’s assistant was standing near my backstage rack, looking at her phone and laughing uncontrollably.
“Kate, you need to see this,” she said, handing me her tablet.
The live stream for the official gala showed a half-empty ballroom. Over half the younger press corps and digital buyers had abandoned the hotel event midway through to come to my alleyway show.
Even worse, the live comment section on the official gala’s stream was entirely overrun by viewers asking where Kate Sullivan was and calling the official showcase “boring” and “outdated.”
Suddenly, the crowd at the entrance of my alleyway shifted.
People parted ways, whispering and pointing as three figures walked past the security guard and stepped onto the damp asphalt near my backstage tent.
It was Brad, his father Charles Miller, and Vanessa Carter.
Charles Miller was a broad, gray-haired man in a ten-thousand-dollar suit, his face contorted in suppressed fury. Vanessa looked uncomfortable in her red evening dress, her heels catching on the rough pavement.
Brad walked behind them, looking anxious, dressed in his black-tie tuxedo.
“Catherine,” Charles Miller barked, his voice carrying over the music as he stopped right outside my dressing tent.
May you like
I stepped out from behind the curtain, holding a glass of cheap prosecco, wearing an oversized black blazer and jeans.
“Mr. Miller,” I said calmly, nodding at him. “You’re in the splash zone. Be careful with your shoes.”
