Comments like that barely even registered anymore; Brooke was happy the girl hadn’t yet asked if she’d considered lightening treatments to eradicate her freckles, something that seemed to be a go-to topic of discussion these days. She tried to distract herself with the Los Angeles Times, but she couldn’t concentrate with the surrounding excitement. Brooke surveyed the 2,100-square-foot duplex penthouse suite and identified two makeup artists, two hairstylists, a nail artist, a stylist, a publicist, an agent, a business manager, the New York reporter, a fitter from Valentino, and enough assistants to staff the White House.

It was undeniably ridiculous, but Brooke couldn’t help being excited by the whole thing. She was at the Grammys—the Grammys!—about to escort her husband down the red carpet in front of the entire world. To say it felt surreal was an understatement; would an event like this ever feel real? From the first time she’d heard Julian sing at the divey Rue B’s nearly nine years earlier, she’d told anyone who would listen he was going to be a star. What she never envisioned was the reality of that word—“star.” Rock star. Superstar. Her husband, the same guy who still bought only Hanes boxers by the three-pack and loved the bread sticks at Olive Garden and picked his nose when he thought she wasn’t looking was an internationally acclaimed rock star with millions of screaming, adoring, devoted fans. She couldn’t imagine a time, now or in the future, when she’d be able to wrap her mind around that fact.

The doorbell rang a second time before one of the impossibly young assistants scampered over to open it—and promptly squealed.

“Who is it?” Brooke asked, unable to open her eyes while they were being lined.

“The security guard from Neil Lane,” she heard Natalya answer. “He’s got your jewelry.”

“My jewelry?” Brooke asked. She didn’t trust herself not to squeal as well, so she clamped her mouth shut and tried not to smile.

When it was finally time to put on her dress, Brooke thought she might faint from excitement (and lack of nourishment, but even with the army of helpers in that hotel suite, not one seemed concerned about food). Two assistants held open the magnificent Valentino gown and another held her hand as she stepped into it. It zipped smoothly up the back and hugged her recently slimmed hips and expertly pushed-up chest as though it had been custom fitted—which, of course, it had. The mermaid shape highlighted her somewhat trim waist while completely masking her “curvy” bum, and its scalloped sweetheart neckline accentuated her cleavage in exactly the right way. Aside from its color (a deep gold hue, not metallic, but like she was wearing a perfect, shimmering tan), it was a lesson in how gorgeous fabric and a flawless fit went miles farther than ruffles, beads, sleeves, sashes, sequins, crinoline, or crystals ever could in taking a dress from beautiful to absolutely spectacular. Both the Valentino fitter and Brooke’s own stylist nodded their approval, and Brooke was ecstatic that she’d redoubled her workout efforts over the past couple months. It had finally paid off.

The jewels came next, and it was almost too much to handle. The security guard, a shorter-than-average man with shoulders the size of a linebacker, handed three velvet boxes to the stylist, who opened them immediately.

“Perfect,” she declared as she plucked the pieces from their velvet boxes.

“Ohmigod,” Brooke said, catching a first glimpse at the earrings. They were pear-shaped diamond drops outlined in a delicate pavé, and they had a look of very Old Hollywood glamour.

“Turn around,” the stylist commanded. She expertly clipped the earrings to Brooke’s lobes and clasped a similarly styled bracelet to her right wrist.

“They’re gorgeous,” Brooke breathed, staring at the glittering pile of diamonds on her arm. She turned to the security guard. “You better follow me into the bathroom tonight. I have a habit of ‘losing’ jewelry all the time!” She laughed to show she was kidding but the guard didn’t even crack a smile.

“Left hand,” the stylist barked.

Brooke extended her left arm, and before she realized what was happening, the woman removed her plain gold wedding band, the one Julian had engraved with their wedding date, and replaced it with a diamond ring the size of a macaroon.

Brooke snatched her hand back as soon as she realized. “No, that’s not going to work, because you know, uh, that’s, um—”

“Julian will understand,” the girl said, and underscored her decision by snapping the ring box closed. “I’m going to get the Polaroid so we can take a few test shots and make sure everything looks good on film. Don’t move.”

Finally left alone, Brooke spun around in front of the full-length mirror that had been brought in especially for the occasion. In her entire life, she couldn’t remember ever feeling close to this beautiful. Her makeup made her feel like a prettier but still real version of herself, and her skin was glowing with health and color. Diamonds sparkled everywhere, her hair looked chic yet natural gathered and twisted low at her nape, and her dress was complete, utter perfection. She beamed at her reflection and grabbed the bedside phone, excited to share this moment.

It rang before she could dial her mother’s number, and Brooke felt a familiar anxious jolt deep in her stomach when the number for NYU Medical Center came up on the caller ID. Why on earth would they be calling her? Another nutritionist, Rebecca, had agreed to cover Brooke’s two missed shifts in exchange for two regular shifts, one holiday, and one weekend. They were brutal concessions, but what choice did she have? It was the Grammys. Another thought flashed in her mind before she could push it away: was Margaret calling to tell her that the entire peds rotation was all hers?

Brooke allowed herself a moment of hopeful excitement before deciding that it was probably only Rebecca asking for clarification on a chart. She cleared her throat and said hello.

“Brooke? Can you hear me?” Margaret’s voice boomed through the line.

“Hello, Margaret. Is everything all right?” Brooke asked, trying to make her voice as calm and assured as possible.

“Oh, hi there. I can hear you now. Listen, Brooke, I was just wondering if everything is okay. I was starting to get a little worried.”

“Worried? Why? Everything’s great here.” Could Margaret have read whatever trash the reporter from the elevator had been referring to? She prayed that wasn’t it.