My husband, Leo, and I were the Hollywood dream. Childhood sweethearts who’d made it, from high school theater to the Oscars. For him, I’d given up my own acting spot at Juilliard, choosing instead to become his manager. But when he finally won his Oscar, a new face appeared: his “little protégé,” Chloe, nearly ten years younger and buzzing with a desperate kind of energy. And between her and me, he always chose her. He let me take the fall for her mistakes, let me be humiliated by her antics, all while swearing, “She’s just like a little sister to me.” Then I saw the TMZ blast: Leo and Chloe, in a passionate kiss outside Musso & Frank. I had to laugh. Since when do you kiss your sister like that? 1 When Leo loved me most, he proposed to me live on the Oscars red carpet, at the absolute peak of his career. The internet broke. He lost over a million followers that night. He just kissed me and said, “It was worth it.” We’d made it. We’d survived the climb. But five years into our marriage, Chloe, his new co-star, latched onto him, and everything changed. On our date nights, her name was in every story. Even when I changed the subject, he’d find a way to bring it back to her, a soft, unfamiliar smile on his face. Today was my birthday. It was also, coincidentally, Chloe’s. On set, the crew threw Chloe a massive surprise party. When Leo and I got back to our hotel, he got a call, and that same soft smile appeared. He grabbed his jacket. "You rest up. I'm just going to... take a walk." My heart gave a stupid little jump. All day, "Happy birthday, Chloe!" echoed around the set. They’d even gotten her a huge, custom-baked cake. Not a single person had wished me a happy birthday. But I didn't care. All that mattered was that he remembered. He’d never forgotten. He was going out to get me a surprise. A gift, and a cake just for me. 2 While he was gone, I set the scene. I ordered a bottle of Dom and a massive platter of spicy king crab legs. He loved crab, but he was a notorious germaphobe and hated the messy, primal work of cracking the shells. I always did it for him. I waited. I cracked shell after shell until the entire platter was a mountain of perfect, pristine meat. I waited until my fingers were raw, stinging from a dozen tiny cuts from the shells. I waited until I accidentally rubbed my eye, and the cayenne from my fingers made me cry out, tears streaming down my face. He didn't come back. Finally, at 6:00 AM, he walked in, holding a small, wilted bouquet of roses. The crab meat had long since gone cold. He saw me, asleep in the chair, and had the grace to look guilty. “Hey,” he whispered, his voice soft. “I’m so sorry, I got held up. A late happy birthday, Zoe.” He held up a small paper bag. “I brought you cake.” He remembered. In that moment, the entire, miserable night evaporated. He gave me a quick kiss. “Happy birthday.” Then he disappeared into the shower. I smiled, touching my cheek. I opened the bag. Inside was a single, plastic-domed slice of ice cream cake. It was completely melted, a soupy, sugary puddle soaked into the cardboard. It wasn't pretty. But I ate it. The stale cake and gritty, melted ice cream coated my tongue. But he’d brought it for me. While I waited for him, I opened my phone, intending to post a picture of the roses. But Instagram was already full of him. Chloe had posted a nine-picture carousel. It was blinding. There she was, holding a bouquet of ninety-nine, perfect, long-stemmed red roses. There was Leo, personally cracking crab legs for her, his notoriously clean hands stained red, a slight smile on his face. And the last photo: a beautiful, elaborate, homemade ice cream cake. It looked vaguely familiar. The caption: “Thank you, ‘big bro,’ for making my birthday so special! A man who shells crab is a king! (PS: The homemade ice cream cake was AMAZING. Literally the best I’ve ever had. And the roses are gorgeous!)” My body went cold. I looked at my eleven dying roses. I looked at her ninety-nine. The cake he brought me wasn't a gift. It was a leftover. He said he was busy. He was. He was busy spending my birthday with her. The sugary sludge in my mouth turned to ash. 3 I told myself to be rational. Maybe they were just friends. We’d been together for so long. I shouldn't be so paranoid. Besides, their movie was wrapping. He’d be on to his next project. They’d drift apart. But after the wrap party, he brought her to our agency. “Zoe,” he said, “you’re the best manager in the business. You’ve launched so many careers. I want you to take Chloe on. She’s got real talent.” Chloe beamed. “Ms. Hale, I’m so excited to work with you. I’ll do whatever you say.” Her cute, baby-doll face was all smiles. It was a terrible position to be in. I couldn't say no. 4 I got her an audition. A gritty, complex, critically-acclaimed cable drama. It was the part of an unlikable villain, a real career-maker. On the surface, she was grateful. “I trust your instincts, Zoe. You’ve never been wrong.” But that night, Leo stormed into our home, dragging her behind him. “Zoe, what the hell is your problem? Are you really this petty?” I was completely blindsided. “What are you talking about?” Chloe, hiding behind him, started to sniffle. “Zoe… I don’t know what I did to make you hate me. I just… I just asked Leo if I could audition for the girlfriend role in his new movie. Why are you trying to sabotage me with that horrible villain part?” I looked at Leo. “Is that what you think? That I’m unprofessional?” He wouldn't meet my eyes. He just looked at me with pure disappointment. “She’s a kid, Zoe. She’s not cynical enough to lie about this.” He didn't even wait for my answer. “You’re going to apologize to her. And then you’re coming with me to dinner with the studio heads. You’re going to get her that role. You owe her that for your little power trip.” My blood froze. “And if I don’t?” His eyes were cold. “Fine. But you’re my wife. Your mistake is my mistake. I’ll go. I’ll beg them. I’ll get on my knees if I have to. I’ll pay them, I’ll drink, whatever it takes. I’ll humiliate myself to fix the mess you made.” He knew me too well. He knew I’d never let him do that. He was using himself to threaten me. For her. My heart felt like it was tearing in two. “Fine,” I bit out, my face pale. “I’ll go.” 5 Some Hollywood dinners are business. Others are just gross. Leo was the Oscar winner. I was the kingmaker manager. The studio execs wouldn't mess with us. So they aimed all their slimy attention at Chloe. The head producer, a notorious pig, raised his glass. “So, Chloe. You drink? Us old guys love our scotch. Leo, here, is a lightweight. And Zoe’s got a weak stomach.” Everyone knew I didn’t drink at these things. Not anymore. “You’re young,” the producer said, smiling. “You won’t mind having a few with us, will you?” Chloe said, “Of course,” but her eyes darted to Leo, pleading. He jumped in instantly. “Oh, she’s just a kid, she can’t handle this stuff. It’s no fun. Zoe will drink with you. She can drink you all under the table.” He said it without a moment’s hesitation. My blood turned to ice. I wasn’t born with a high tolerance. I’d earned it. I’d earned it in cheap bars, doing vodka shots with sleazy producers to get him auditions, back when he was a nobody. I’d earned it until I’d burned a hole in my stomach. I have a chronic ulcer. The slightest bit of alcohol feels like swallowing glass. He knew. When I was diagnosed, he’d nursed me for months, feeding me broth, swearing I’d never have to go to another one of those dinners again. And now, to protect her, he’d forgotten. I gripped my glass. I looked at him, one last time. “You really want me to drink this?” He avoided my eyes. “Chloe’s just starting out, Zoe. You’re different.” My heart just… shattered. I raised the glass and downed it. Then I grabbed the bottle. I was on my feet, going around the table, a manic smile on my face. “To the director! To the producer!” One for them, five for me. They tried to wave me off, but I was on a mission. I wanted him to watch. This was his doing. If I ended up in the ER, it was on him. The high-proof vodka hit my ulcer like a blowtorch. My stomach seized, but the pain in my chest was so much worse. I just kept pouring. It was the director who finally noticed. “Zoe, hey… you’re white as a sheet. You’re sweating. Let’s switch to water, okay?” Leo finally looked at me, and his face filled with panic. “If you can’t drink, why are you drinking? You have a mouth, don’t you? You can’t say no?” But when I had said no—when I said I wasn’t sabotaging her—had he listened? His heart was open for her, which meant his ears were closed to me.
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