by Meg Collett
She froze beneath the arch. From the living room, the glass wall had looked thin, merely a layer to separate the rooms. But inside the archway, Wren realized there were two pocket doors on either side of her that were camouflaged into the opaque glass. They were wide enough to lead into a hallway of sorts. She stepped through to the other side and looked back at the glass wall. She saw only the living room from which they’d come. She frowned.
Maddox noticed her confusion. “Black hallways wrap through the entire set. You’ll find them along all the perimeter walls and around most of the rooms.” He pointed at the archway. “All black hallways are ‘dead zones.’ If you need to talk to any of us, these zones are—”
Wren raised her hand.
“Do you have a question?”
She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “What are ‘black’ hallways?”
“Let me show you.” Maddox walked farther into the dining room. It had the largest table Wren had ever seen in her life. In the middle of the room, a staircase spiraled up to the second level. To the left, a swinging door led into the kitchen.
Beneath another archway, Maddox opened a pocket door. Wren followed him into a narrow hall. The walls closed in around her, cutting off her view of the set. Carpet covered the floor and muffled their footsteps.
She had stepped into an entirely new world. The hall ran straight away from her, then split off into two different directions. “You said these halls wrap through the entire set?”
“They do. Ingenious, no?” Maddox preened. “I helped design them.”
With these halls threading between the glass walls, the set had to be massive. It also completely obliterated any hope of seeing the Whitebird insider doing anything. A person could get lost for days in here, and Wren couldn’t hide her awe. “It’s amazing. How does the glass work if these are behind the walls? Is it an optical illusion or something?”
Her approval seeped into Maddox and warmed him faster than the sun. “It’s better than an illusion,” he said. “It’s technology. The walls containing black hallways aren’t glass at all. They’re super-high resolution screens that play a constant live feed of the rooms around them in. The tech isn’t even on the market yet. Let me show you. Go back into the dining room.”
Maddox remained in the black hall with the pocket door open. Wren took her place in the dining room, where she could see Maddox through the door and Hutton standing on the other side of the archway in the living room.
“What now?” Wren asked.
“Hutton!” Maddox called from the hall. “Move over to this wall.”
Hutton rolled her eyes, but she shifted over until she was behind the “glass” wall that separated the living room from the dining room. Wren walked over and stopped when she was directly in line with where Maddox stood in the black hall. But she only saw Hutton in front of her. The handler waved with a smirk. Wren’s mouth fell open. Carefully, she touched the wall. It felt just like glass. If she pressed hard enough, the pixels wavered and a black flicker spread out from her fingertip.
“Brilliant,” she murmured. Maddox came out of the hall and closed the pocket door behind him. For the first time, she won a smile from him. It made him look fatherly and less riddled with stress.
The black hallways were brand new tech, meaning they’d be just as new to the Whitebird insider as they were to Wren. Just like Sloane took control of an interview and used it to her advantage, Wren would take control of these halls. She would be the smartest rat in the maze. A smile spread across her face at the opportunity.
“The halls are referred to as dead zones because there are no cameras inside them and they’re never ‘hot zones,’ an area where filming occurs. Okay?”
That was even better. “Yes, sir.”
Maddox pointed to the next part of the penthouse, which opened onto the balcony and pool, with lounges and gaming tables and a bar spanning the entire side wall. “Out there,” he said, “there are no black halls. Beyond that arch, the outside public can see you. That area is only for certain filming times, and cast or crew aren’t allowed out there unless given permission.”
“But I thought that was the whole point of this show? For the public to see us up here.”
“It is.” He swept his hand toward the outer balcony. “But we control what they see.”
“That’s the hope, anyway,” Hutton chimed in.
Without acknowledging Hutton, Maddox steered Wren toward the spiral stairs and up to the second level, showing her the study, library, billiard room, and a lounge with another bar. Now that she was looking for them, she picked out where the hidden hallways wound through the space, their pocket doors almost invisible.
“What’s next? Ah, yes. When you’re on set, you should consider all zones hot. This means whatever room you’re in, you’re being recorded, either by the eleven man-operated cameras or from the hundreds of cameras installed throughout the house. At times, we’ll go live.” Maddox’s expression grew serious, and his gaze burned into Wren. “During these live periods, you are to never, under any circumstance, break character. Before we go into a live segment, the entire cast and crew will be briefed on what will be filmed. You will receive a script to memorize. Everyone will have places to be, and everyone will know what they’re approved to say. Nothing else. Got it?”
“It’s not really reality television at all, is it?” Between the glass screens, the live shows, and the black hallways, Glass House was going to be tightly regimented. Wren decided to look at it as another advantage; she wouldn’t have to focus all her energy on performing all the time, and she could devote more of her time to investigating.
Excitement danced in her belly. She’d expected to be frail, terrified Wren Iver from Sunshine Heights during this meeting, but instead, she felt like the girl forged in the Tube—the hybrid of Sloane and Wren. The girl that would survive.
“Each day, before filming starts, you’ll receive a list of planned scenarios that you’ll act out with the cast during the day. But the unmanned cameras will record you twenty-four seven, and that footage is free to be used to supplement what we film.”
They went up another spiral staircase that led to the bedroom level. The walls were solid, not see-through, and draped in dark velvet curtains. Various halls branched off from the central atrium area, with another spiral staircase leading to a fourth level. In the halls, wide, almost black wooden doors led into the bedrooms.
“Crew bedrooms and offices are also on this level,” Maddox said. “Your bedroom is in the middle hall along the back wall overlooking the city. But we’ll take the back way so you can memorize it.”
“What’s up there?” Wren pointed back at the staircase in the atrium.
“The conservatory. We won’t be going up there because it’s a real glass dome. No screens to control what the public sees.”
“Are there cameras?” Wren needed to know every single dead zone on the set. If she were a Whitebird, the dead zones would be the place to play.
“None that are mounted, but we might film up there occasionally. Let’s go to your room.”
With one last glance up at the conservatory, Wren followed Maddox into the black hallway running along a side perimeter wall. The hall was narrow, with pocket doors every few feet leading in and out of the cast members’ bedrooms.
Maddox paused beside a pocket door and said, “Another dead zone is your and Roman’s bedroom. This is the back entrance.” He pressed his thumb to an interface beside the lock. It scanned his print and unlocked. He pushed down on the handle and the door swung open.
“Does everyone have permission to open that door?” Wren asked, not only thinking of how she could keep Whitebirds out of her room, but also how she could snoop in other rooms.
“Only you, Hutton, Roman, Bode, and select crew members, like myself, can open the back entrance, but the front doors are always unlocked.”
He held the door open and Wren entered.
The room stuck with the white-and-gla
ss motif, but there was carpet flooring instead of frosted glass. Fur pillows and white silk blankets were draped over the bed. A desk and computer sat opposite, with a large television suspended on the wall above. Beside the desk, a door likely led into the bathroom.
The back wall was one sweeping window. Through it, she could just make out the edge of Hollywood. The hologram depicted a serene daytime view of a sandy beach and ocean with rolling, white-capped waves. A lie. Wren couldn’t know if the real ocean laid just beyond the hologram. The window darkened, and she turned around.
“Now, listen closely. Your bedroom is the only sleeping quarters without cameras. This is not public knowledge, understand?” Maddox waited until Wren nodded. “There will be fake cameras installed, so you’ll be free to talk out of character or take your medicine. When we film scenes between you and Roman, or if things happen between you two, camera crews will follow you into the room. Roman is aware of this as well. Do you understand?”
Wren frowned. “No?”
“Basically, if you two plan on screwing, please be nice enough to let the perverted cameramen know so sweet Maddox here can film it.” Hutton’s eyes danced bright with laughter.
Wren coughed, her cheeks flushing with fire. They would film intimate scenes between her and Roman? Did they expect intimate things to happen between them? Roman knew, meaning he’d already considered this. Considered kissing her. Considered … more. The base of Wren’s spine tingled.
It should have appalled her, but the thought of kissing Roman, even on camera, thrilled her. It was nonsense—she told herself she didn’t even like him or trust him all that much—but she couldn’t help the all too pleasurable feeling she got when she thought of kissing him. Of running her finger along his scar.
“If you’re followed into your room, the space is obviously considered hot and you are to stay in character.”
“Yes, sir.”
A fine sheen of sweat covered Maddox’s pale face. “Does this all make sense?”
“It does. Thank you for taking the time to show me around.”
“Never let down your guard and you’ll be fine.” His brows furrowed. “How old are you?” He turned to Hutton. “Is it even legal for her to drink or be filmed while she and Roman …”
“She’s nineteen. Don’t worry. She signed those rights away in her contract.” Hutton winked at Wren.
Wren’s previous thrill evaporated. What exactly had been in that contract she hadn’t read?
Maddox scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. His fingers were short and thick, with curls of brown hair on his knuckles. “Fine. You’ll be okay.” He smiled at Wren, but it looked more like a grimace from indigestion.
“I’ll be fine,” she echoed, hoping the words were true.
“My crew and I will walk everyone through the procedures during the first few days of filming. It’ll give you more time to adjust.”
“I appreciate that,” Wren said and meant it.
To survive this show, she’d need Maddox on her side. Her smile hadn’t worked on him, and she doubted Sloane’s signature flirtations would either, but respect and acknowledgment had struck a chord with him.
A performance, she told herself. “I can’t tell you how thankful I am that you’re taking time to walk me through this. As you can imagine, all of this has been overwhelming, but the show is going to be spectacular. I’ll do my best to make you proud.”
Hutton shot her a dry look, knowing exactly what Wren was attempting to pull, but Maddox reveled in it. When he smiled at Wren, it was sincere.
“Thank you, Wren. I look forward to working with you.”
Hutton rolled her eyes. “On that special note, it’s time for us to get back for training. Would you like to watch? I’m sure you’re not that busy.”
Maddox jerked his eyes away from Wren and glared at Hutton. “I have appointments. You two can see yourselves out.”
After Maddox had gone, Hutton and Wren made their way back downstairs, the light over the elevator door counting down their descent to the lobby.
“That was a nice show you put on,” Hutton said. “Good thinking, sucking up to Maddox. It almost makes up for you freezing colder than a corpse in front of the reporters.”
“Will they really film anything … happening between Roman and me? Are things supposed to happen?”
Hutton arranged the hem of her shirt as she said, “They’ll film everything—if you let them. But you’re not a flesh-feed actress, and I’m certain Roman will have obnoxiously chivalrous thoughts on the matter. Don’t fret your pretty little head. I doubt it’ll happen.”
Wren’s legs weren’t as shaky when she stepped off the elevator into the lobby alcove, but Hutton didn’t follow. As if just realizing something, she stared at Wren with an odd expression on her face, her hand on the doors to keep them from closing.
“What is it?” Wren asked.
“Did Roman talk to you last night?”
Around them, people got on and off the other elevators. She caught more than a few of them staring. She lowered her voice and said, “A bit.”
“What did he say?”
“He gave me a few tips.”
Wren mentioned nothing of his less-than-favorable opinions of Hutton’s teachings or that he intended to help her understand Sloane better. Mainly, she wanted to avoid Hutton’s wrath and she didn’t want Roman to be on the receiving end of it either. A smaller part of her also worried the words might hurt Hutton’s feelings. Beneath her shark-like exterior, Wren guessed Hutton was more sensitive than she let on.
Hutton dropped her hand and walked off the elevator. She paused beside Wren and whispered, “Be careful with him. He’s a user, and he didn’t know Sloane as well as he thought he did.”
14:
That evening, after training and a quick alt on her lips, which had left her mouth tingling and numb for hours, Wren stole her way across the penthouse. It was late again, and the medical team had left hours ago. Hutton had locked herself in her room with a bottle of wine and a snarling warning for everyone to leave her alone.
Wren padded past Bode, who’d once again fallen asleep on the couch. Hazen was running him almost ragged, leaving him exhausted and grim-faced each morning.
As for Roman, Wren hadn’t seen him all day, even during her training session with Hutton. No one had mentioned his absence. It must have been planned, and Hutton and Bode had both acted more relaxed without him in the room. Whatever it was worth, Wren had missed him and his sarcastic repartee with Hutton.
Wren huddled deeper into the loose cable-knit sweater she wore above a pair of silk pants. She slipped into Sloane’s office and closed the door behind her with a soft snick. The flowers arranged in crystal vases on various surfaces were wilted, their petals crumbling.
She sat at the desk, Sloane’s computer brightening in front of her. The glow illuminated the room, and Wren opened a folder on the main screen. It contained thousands of personal photos Sloane had taken throughout the years.
They were a diary of sorts and almost more intimate than words written on a page. Through years of captured moments, Wren watched as the shine in Sloane’s eyes dimmed and her smile grew sharper. Fewer friends and family appeared in the images until it was only Sloane and Hutton, with the occasional one of Roman.
Wren lost track of how long she’d been sitting at the computer, flipping through pictures, but Roman eventually showed up. Even in the computer’s soft glow, Wren saw the strain in his eyes and the thicker scruff along his jaw. He wore dark jeans and a white button-up shirt wrinkled at the bottom, as if he’d jerked it free from the band of his jeans. The buttons near the collar were undone and thrown open to reveal a swath of tanned skin.
Wren pulled her eyes back to his. “Where have you been all day?”
“Press for the show.” He slumped into a chair. “Being around Vik and Beau for that long is excruciating.”
“Shouldn’t I be doing press too?”
“Hazen exp
lained that you were busy with your free radical detox or whatever the hell Hutton is calling it.”
Wren frowned. “But a detox excuse sounds like Sloane relapsed and is trying to get clean before the show.”
“You got it.”
The fatigue and soreness made her anger snap into place quicker than usual. “I could have done the press.”
Roman held up his hands. “Hey, I know. But Hutton didn’t think you were ready, and everyone was passing around a picture of you outside VidaCorp’s HQ from today. It’s probably best you weren’t there.”
Wren groaned. The picture—her with her mouth hanging open, her ball cap crooked on her head, and her sunglasses sliding down her nose beneath shocked, peaked eyebrows—had sent Hutton into a fury. “I wasn’t ready for the sort of questions the reporters were going to ask. Will it be like that at the red carpet?”
“The reporters and feed anchors will be well behaved because they want to be invited back to other events. It’ll be nothing like what happened today.”
Wren breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s good to know. Today was just … How did Sloane deal with that? How do you?”
Roman lifted a shoulder. “At some point, it becomes background noise.”
“They asked if I’d had an abortion. That’s not background noise.”
The look he gave her was one that said she had a lot to learn when it came to reporters. Perhaps she did, but how desensitized would a person have to be to ignore something like that? It was asking a living, breathing person to be nothing more than a Link with no heart or soul.
“Wren?”
“Ah, sorry. What was that?”
“I asked if you wanted to get started.” Roman leaned forward in his seat, his elbows on his knees.
After freezing today in front of the reporters, Wren finally appreciated how hard performing on the red carpet would be. She would have to be perfect. More than perfect. She couldn’t give anyone a single reason to scrutinize her answers or her actions more than normal. She trusted Hazen’s medical team to make her Sloane’s flawless copy, but trusting herself to act just as flawless would take time—time she didn’t have.