Reed took the mic and smiled — and Juliette felt the floor dissolve beneath her feet. The applause hit like surf. Reed’s grin was perfect, polished by ten years of cameras and trainers. He lifted the statuette with a slow, theatrical flourish. "This one’s for anyone who ever told me I couldn't," he said, voice warm and practiced. The crowd roared. The lights turned his face into a soft coin of gold. Juliette sat two rows back. Her hands were folded over a champagne flute she hadn't touched. She had watched him climb from late-night auditions to this — red carpets, magazine covers, the kind of success that rewrote a past nobody should remember. She had stood beside him when the first small roles arrived, when the call came that changed everything. She had believed in him. Tonight had been supposed to be private: promises whispered after the ceremony, tucked away beneath dressing-room lights. Reed scanned the audience like he always did, hunting for warmth. His eyes landed on Juliette for half a second. There it was — the old twitch, the part of him that learned how to be seen. He nodded, the way he had on their first campus date, then turned the camera-feed. "And I couldn't have done it alone," he said. "I need to thank someone who believed when no one else did." He stepped forward. A slow-motion push of light. The orchestra softened to a hush. Juliette smiled automatically