That was Emma—she'd have enjoyed knowing she had something like that, something that could blow her whole fucking life and mine apart if it came out. Her little bit of power.

My vision fades, like a tunnel rushing toward me, like a spotlight dimming, and my head slumps down onto my chest. Cue curtain. Cue applause. Cue oblivion. Fade out.

Is it just me who does this—who feels they’re constantly watching themselves in the movie of their own life? When I ask my friends, most claim they don’t. But they must be lying. Why else would you become an actor, if not to edit reality?

I don't want anything from you, Edward. If you'd only told me you were still in love with Emma—''You don't understand,' he interrupts. 'It was like an illness. I hated myself every second I was with her.

You say just, Ellis says flatly. There is no just with Edward Monkford. Nothing's more important to him than getting his own way.

Don't think. Acting isn't faking or impersonating. The clue is in the world. Acting is doing.

I'm not proud of that stuff I do for Henry. But sometimes I am proud of how well I do it.

Who is the real Claire Wright? The one sitting here, with her precious green card permit in front of her, exchanging pleasantries with the man who provided it? Or the one who fell for the darkness she sensed deep inside the only man she couldn’t seduce? Which is the performance: Who I was then? Or who I am now?

And I smile at him, happy. Because it turns out the only thing better than sharing your own worst secrets is when the person you love shares his with you.

You are a crazy, evil woman,” Patrick says, staring at me. “You don’t know how crazy,” I promise him. “You haven’t seen anything yet.