Marisol Acts the Part

By Elle Gonzalez Rose

Coming 08.12.25

A teen actress lands a role on the same high-profile show as her ex-boyfriend—only for things to get messy when she falls for his cute scene partner—in a dazzling sapphic rom-com from the author of Caught in a Bad Fauxmance.

Actress Marisol Polly-Rodriguez might be entering her flop era. After wrapping up a hit show, she’s neither booked nor busy. Not to mention, her former costar turned boyfriend, Miles, recently dumped her for being an “unserious” performer. Can you imagine?

To prove to Miles—and online trolls—that she takes her craft very seriously, Marisol lands a role on the same upcoming drama series he does. But with the eccentric director constantly rewriting her lines and a snobby castmate trying to upstage her, Marisol quickly realizes that her hope of nabbing an award nomination might be a pipe dream.

The only person she doesn’t have to put on a performance for is the show’s leading lady, Jamila. Marisol hasn’t been able to look away from her since their first audition. Falling for Jamila wasn’t part of Marisol’s plan, but even the most dedicated actors go off script sometimes, right?

Chapter 1

Paparazzi get a bad rap. Sure, the shouting and talking over each other can be overwhelming at first. But after a couple of months, it becomes background noise. Like flies buzzing in your ear.

Which, yes, is usually annoying, but this is the good kind of buzz. Not the “sneaking sips of champagne” type of buzz, but something way more exhilarating. The buzz of people clamoring to get closer to you, to hear your voice, to get a single photo of you. The buzz of attention—the most powerful drug in Hollywood.

“Ready?” I readjust my purse in the car, making sure the designer’s emblem is prominently featured and visible from all potential angles—a lesson I learned the hard way during my last brand ambassadorship. Getting chewed out in rapid Italian by a sixteen-year-old designer who thinks they’re Versace reincarnated because you covered up their logo with your “sweaty American armpit” is very humbling.

Camera-ready, I turn my attention to Miles. For someone who’s the star of this celebratory dinner, he’s not looking very celebratory. Sweat droplets bead along his forehead, smudges of foundation stain the napkin he used to blot himself dry.

“I told you that you have to use setting spray!” I scold before reaching into my bag. Luckily for him, I never leave the house without a bottle. You’d think after four years of crack-of-dawn hair and makeup calls, he’d actually listen to the makeup artists we spent most of our mornings with.

Miles grimaces when I spray a light mist across his face, breaking out into a coughing fit when he accidentally inhales some of it.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” I apologize quickly, tossing the bottle back into my bag before I fan his face while he hacks like an eighty-year-old smoker.

Our driver and self-appointed bodyguard, Luis, throws the car into park and arms himself with an umbrella before exiting and heading straight for the crowd of men holding cameras and swarming the backseat door.

“Back it up!” Luis shouts into the crowd, wielding his umbrella like a sword until he’s made a narrow path for us to get to the door.

I grab Miles’s hand, giving it a “look alive” squeeze, and put on my best picture-perfect smile before Luis opens the door and we’re met with a flurry of heat, voices, and flashing lights.

Miles shies away from the sudden brightness, shielding himself like a vampire from the sun. I’d ask him if he was okay if we had any time, but the camera firestorm has already begun, meaning the longer we sit here, the better the chances they’ll get an unflattering shot.

And there’s nothing the internet loves more than an unflattering photo of a hot young celebrity.

I tighten my grip on Miles’s hand, tugging him along as I gracefully step out of the car. He doesn’t follow like he usually does, dragging behind me like a dog on a leash instead. His hand is tense, uncomfortably stiff and clammy. To save him from the paparazzi getting a shot of him mid-grimace, I position myself in front of him as he exits the car. The crowd focuses on me and the way the hot pink sequins on my minidress gleam in the flash of their cameras. Thank God I went with the Louboutin pumps, or else there’s no way I would’ve been able to cover up six feet of Miles with barely five foot two of me.

“Marisol!” the crowd cries out in unsynchronized chaos. They throw out questions and comments, their voices piled on top of each other until the noise morphs into the static I’m used to. Too jumbled for me to do anything but ignore it, smile, and wave.

Miles takes the lead, ducking his head away from the flashes and ushering me forward so quickly I almost trip.

“Slow down,” I hiss once I’ve caught my balance, making sure to keep my smile in place as we make our way through the crowd toward the restaurant, Capri. But Miles either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t care, and picks up our pace instead. I let out a quiet humph and begrudgingly follow. I spent more than an hour putting together this ensemble; it deserves a moment in the spotlight.

The crowd parts for Miles. At this pace, it’s a miracle I make it to Capri without breaking my neck. I can already see the headlines: teen starlet dead by design: is the price of fashion worth it?

(Yes, it is. These pumps make my legs look phenomenal.)

A valet in a white tux holds open the door and gestures for us to head inside. Miles leans against the coat-check stand and rubs his left temple, looking like he’s fighting off a migraine. I reach for him, prepared to ask what’s wrong, when the maître d’ appears beside us, red leather menus in hand.

“Right this way, Mr. Zhao,” she says with a prim smile, not even bothering to look at me. An annoying yet sadly not unusual new aspect of Miles’s and my relationship.

It makes sense, I tell myself as we follow the maître d’ to the dining room. As of last week, Miles has officially landed the lead role in season two of The Limit, an anthology series that swept both the Emmys and Golden Globes last year.

Not that anyone knows that yet.

The show’s director, Rune, is weird about spoilers. So much so he’s even keeping the cast announcement on lockdown until they start production. But still, Hollywood thrives on SoulCycle, matcha lattes, and gossip. People were bound to find out, lockdown or not. Especially with the sudden shift in Miles’s image ever since we wrapped the series finale of Avalon Grove, the teen drama that brought us together. The shaggy-haired fourteen-year-old I met at a callback four years ago has blossomed into a full-on leading man, complete with a six-hundred-dollar haircut and abs so defined you’d think they were photoshopped.

Meanwhile, my career has been a bit . . . stagnant. A slew of auditions came rushing in when Avalon Grove wrapped two months ago—studios eager to try to book me now that I wasn’t tied up with my usual shooting schedule—but none of them have panned out. Not the high-concept A24 dystopian rom-com, or the Paramount+ paranormal romance about a headstrong huntress falling for a fledgling vampire, or the young adult Netflix series about a group of college friends studying abroad. I was so sure I nailed that last one.

The market’s tough right now, my agent has assured me about a dozen times. Mostly to keep me from spiraling about whether launching my career with a teen drama has ended it prematurely instead of igniting it. Especially considering the only feedback we’ve gotten is that I wasn’t the “image” they were going for. Which definitely seems like code for “We don’t cast a teeny-bopper actress for our highbrow show” to me.

At least it’s not just me. A few of my other friends from the Avalon Grove cast have been in a lull too. The most I’ve done so far has been a shoot for a new antiaging skincare brand—which feels a little odd for me, an eighteen-year-old, to be the face of, but hey, I won’t ask questions as long as I get paid.

So, yeah, it definitely makes sense that people care more about Miles and his career right now. Totally. One hundred percent. The pinched expression still hasn’t left Miles’s face even after we’re seated, sparkling water and fresh bread waiting for us on the table. They were even able to seat us beside the window with stunning views of the sunset. From this high up, you can’t even see the traffic clogging the I-5. Los Angeles has never looked better.

The crowd is thinner on a Wednesday night, but not any less star-studded. I quickly scan the room from behind my menu, spotting a group of girls from a Netflix dating show, a few familiar faces I can’t quite place, and a couple in a discreet shadowy corner—the star of the latest Marvel movie cuddled up with a pretty young brunette I’m 98 percent sure is not his wife.

Can’t blame the paparazzi for camping outside of Capri like they’re waiting to get into a concert. Hundreds of actors, musicians, and influencers pass through every day like clockwork thanks to their strict “know someone who knows someone” reservation policy. And everyone knows there’s nothing we Hollywood elite love more than exclusivity.

If the waiters weren’t forced to sign NDAs, they’d make a killing leaking stories to the press.

The completely-in-Italian menu still throws me off as much as it did the first time Miles and I came here, for our first anniversary. Last time, I accidentally ordered what I quickly learned was a whole braised fish. As in head-on, soulless-eyes-blinking-up-at-you whole. The night was so traumatizing, I’ve been a vegetarian ever since. Well . . . except for In-N-Out. There are some sacrifices I’ll never be willing to make.

God, I could go for a Flying Dutchman.

My stomach rumbles in agreement. I set down my menu and lean across the table, prepared to ask Miles if we can swing by the drive-through on our way home, when I notice that he’s staring into space, frowning. His menu is still unopened.

“Hey,” I whisper as I shift my chair closer to him. “Are you okay? You’ve been . . . weird tonight.”

He’s been more than a little weird, but calling him out on it won’t make the situation any better. Miles has always been a terrible texter, but he’s reached new levels of terribleness lately. He didn’t even respond when I sent him a video of my French bulldog, Bruiser, chasing her nub of a tail. And he always responds to Bruiser content. The whole reason I even have her is because he adopted her for me on my birthday last year after I, while high on novocaine from a root canal, spent three hours crying to him about how I didn’t book the lead in the Legally Blonde reboot. Seriously, who else in Hollywood has a wardrobe as pink as I do? No one.

Not to mention that we’ve barely seen each other this month. If I can get Miles to reply to my texts or answer my FaceTime calls, he usually only has time to brush me off by saying he has “to go to the gym” or has “a meeting in ten.” Who goes to the gym at five in the morning?

Scratch that. I know: soulless people.

Next week, he’ll be moving to New York to settle in before filming The Limit for the entire summer, and who knows how many times I’ll get to see him then. Or if I’ll even get to see him. Showmances aren’t built to last, but we had something different.

Have, I mean. Have something different.

While millions of viewers watched our characters, Celia and Joe, play the will-they-won’t-they game for four seasons, our own love story unfolded with a lot less drama. From the moment he came ambling up to me on our first shoot day, offering me a muffin from crafty and a handshake, I knew I was done for. His smile was like a bolt of lightning—sharp and magnetic, leaving me breathless. The brush of his skin against mine when we hugged at the end of the day made my stomach twist into a thousand knots. On the drive home, when Mom asked how the first day went, all I’d been able to say was that I felt like I’d eaten an entire bag of Halloween candy.