Excerpt:

"What do you mean you're leaving?"

Shock and disbelief clouded London's brow (despite the neurotoxin injections) as she stared at her lover. Marcel only shrugged. When one of his people scribbled a note and handed it to him, he read it cold.

"We're drifting apart. It's not you, it's me." He took the cigarette out of his mouth and glared at the hapless scriptwriter. She withered visibly behind her cheap haircut. "This is what I pay you for?" He shook his head and his stylist adjusted the tousled locks with a comb.