The Rusty Anchor was exactly the kind of place Aria usually avoided. It smelled of stale beer, fryer grease, and regret. The floor was sticky enough to steal a shoe, and the lighting was dim enough to hide a multitude of sins.
It was perfect.
Aria pushed through the heavy wooden doors, scanning the crowd. The cast and crew of The Empress's Shadow were in full swing. Lighting guys were doing shots with makeup artists. The Director was arm-wrestling the Key Grip.
And there, huddled in a corner booth like a tragic, sequined lump, was Bella Vale.
Bella was alone. She was nursing a neon blue cocktail that looked like Windex, staring aggressively at the table and wiping her nose with a cocktail napkin.
Aria adjusted her leather jacket, smoothed her expression into something resembling sympathy, and walked over.
"He's not worth the mascara, you know," Aria said, sliding into the booth opposite her sister.
