Rosa’s laughter came quick and warm at the nudge, the sound rolling out like she’d been caught red-handed. “Anything but boring—mm, that’s one way of putting it.” She tipped her head, grin sly as a cat. “Let’s just say Javier keeps me on my toes, and I return the favor. That’s the trick, I think. Boring kills faster than whiskey.”
Her hand slipped around the cool glass Stella set down, and she lifted it in a little salute. “A gin rickey it is. We’ll save the mystery concoction for when I’m brave enough to risk another week-long hangover. Or a proposal.” The smirk sharpened, but there was an ease in it now—Rosa was in her element, playing with words the way others played cards.
Scarlett’s mention of Camila Santos made Rosa’s brows rise, “Now that,” she said, leaning forward, “is worth toasting. About damn time more women start calling shots instead of just hitting marks. If anyone can wrangle this circus from the inside, it’s you.” She may not like Camila on a personal level, but she had begrudging respect for any woman who took on the boys club that was behind the camera.
And then the question landed back in her lap. What’s next? Rosa swirled the drink in her hand, eyes following the lime slice that bobbed against the glass. She could already hear the hollow answers she’d given in interviews—another picture soon, I can’t say which just yet, oh, the studio’s always cooking something up. Lies polished for column inches.
The truth was rougher. Roles weren’t rolling in the way they once had. Not the ones she wanted, at least. Not when younger starlets were easier to package and her name still had the shadow of those damn headlines trailing behind it. She wondered sometimes if it was her politics that had soured them, or simply the years etched into her smile. Both, maybe. And God forbid she say it out loud—Hollywood hated a woman who admitted she could see the clock.
So she did what she always did, smiled through it. “Me?” Her tone was light, easy, as if the question hadn’t just scraped raw against her pride. “I’m leaning back toward music. The stage is simpler than the screen—you show up, you sing, and nobody’s fussing over whether you fit their picture. It feels good to have an audience for the voice again, instead of just the face.”
Her mouth curved, self-mocking and sly, though the shadow underneath lingered if you knew how to look. “Besides, I hear microphones don’t care if you’re twenty-five or thirty-three. They only care if you hit the note.” She raised her glass again, masking the slip of truth with a glint of mischief. “And I still do.”