Chapter 2
"Hi, this is Damon Cruz's office." The assistant's voice was professionally cheerful, which somehow made everything worse.
"This is Aria Sinclair. I need to speak to Damon immediately about Stella." My voice was steady, but my free hand was clenched so tight my nails were cutting into my palm.
"Oh, hi Miss Sinclair! Mr. Cruz is in back-to-back meetings today, but I can tell you that Stella is doing great! They're actually shooting some promotional materials with her today, so she'll be back to you soon!"
"Promotional materials?" The words felt like ash in my mouth. "The film wrapped two weeks ago."
"Oh, you know how it is with awards season coming up—lots of additional content needed! Behind-the-scenes stuff, cast interviews with the animals, that sort of thing!"
More lies. Awards season publicity did require additional content, but it didn't require filming car crash scenes in downtown LA. It didn't require my dog crying out in pain.
"Chloe, I need you to give Damon a direct message. Tell him Aria called about the audio from scene 47. Tell him I want Stella back today."
"I'll definitely pass that along! Is there anything else I can help you with?"
"When exactly will he be available?"
"Hmm, let me check his calendar... looks like he's booked solid until after the premiere tonight. But I'm sure he'll call you back as soon as he can!"
I hung up, my hands trembling.
Hours later, I sat in my private recording studio, playing that audio segment over and over, desperately searching for any evidence that this wasn't Stella. Any sign that I was wrong.
But each replay only confirmed my worst fears.
As a sound engineer, I knew how to read audio waveforms, even if I couldn't see them. Tom could describe them to me. Every impact had its signature, every cry had its fingerprint. This wasn't from a sound effects library. This wasn't CGI. This was live-recorded, genuine suffering.
My phone rang. Unknown number.
"Hello?"
"Miss Sinclair? This is Janet from Guide Dogs for the Blind. I'm calling about Stella's return paperwork."
My heart skipped a beat. "Return paperwork?"
"Yes, we haven't received confirmation that she's completed her film work and returned to active duty. Is everything alright?"
They didn't know. They thought Stella was still working. Which meant Damon hadn't contacted them. Which meant...
"Actually, Janet, I was hoping you could help me. Has anyone from the film production contacted you about Stella recently?"
"No, not since the initial paperwork three months ago. Is there a problem?"
"I'm not sure yet. Can you tell me what the original agreement stated about the duration of filming?"
"Let me check... here it is. Six weeks maximum, with weekly check-ins required. The last check-in we received was... oh, that's strange. March 10th. We should have received an update on March 17th."
By evening, I found myself at the Beverly Hills Hotel, the premiere in full swing. Red carpet, flashing cameras, the whole Hollywood spectacle.
"Aria! You look stunning!" Madison's voice cut through the crowd. She was an old friend from Stanford, now working at Variety.
"Thanks. Is Damon here yet?"
"I saw him doing interviews about twenty minutes ago. With his leading lady, Raven... what's her last name?"
"Maddox."
"Right. They make a good team on camera. Very... chemistry-filled."
In other circumstances, I might have been jealous. But now I only cared about one thing.
"Madison, can you do me a favor? I need to get close to Damon during the Q&A session."
"Sure, but why? You guys having problems?"
"Something like that."
At the Dolby Theatre, I settled into my seat wearing specialized bone-conduction headphones connected to the theater's sound system. It allowed me to "watch" the film through audio and dialogue, understanding what was happening through sound.
The first half was beautiful. I heard Stella's footsteps, her happy barks, her interactions with the actors. These sounds were full of life, full of her unique personality.
Then came that scene.
I knew it was coming. I'd heard this audio countless times. But in the theater, surrounded by hundreds of people, played through professional Dolby sound—it was clearer. More real. More heartbreaking.
The screech of tires. The crash of metal. Then Stella's cry, that sound that made my heart stop.
The audience around me let out a collective gasp. Someone whispered "oh no."
"That felt so real," a woman in front of me said to her companion. "The sound design is incredible."
Sound design. If only she knew it wasn't designed at all.
During the post-screening Q&A, I sat on stage next to Damon and Raven, listening to journalists gush about the film's "raw emotional power."
"The dog's death scene was particularly moving," a critic from the Hollywood Reporter said. "It felt so authentic. How did you achieve that level of realism?"
Damon was two seats to my left. I could hear his breathing, smell his cologne.
"Well, we believe in authenticity," Damon answered. "Sometimes the most honest emotions come from real experiences."
Real experiences. My blood turned to ice.
"Aria?" The moderator's voice suddenly cut through my thoughts. "As the film's producer and Damon's fiancée, what was it like watching your investment come to life?"
My investment. My dog. My trust. My love.
The microphone was passed to me. I could feel hundreds of eyes watching, dozens of cameras recording. This was my moment.
"Actually," I said, my voice carrying clearly through the theater's sound system, "I have a question for Damon."
I turned toward where I knew he was sitting, though I couldn't see him.
"Stella. My guide dog. Where is she, Damon?"
Silence. Then footsteps, the click of nails on marble, soft panting, the jingle of a collar.
Relief flooded through me so fast I almost cried.
"She's right here, baby," Damon's voice was warm, reassuring. "We just finished the photo shoot. Didn't we, girl?"
A German Shepherd appeared beside my chair, nudging my hand with her nose. The same size as Stella, the same coloring, the same gentle pressure against my leg.
For one beautiful, naive moment, I thought I'd been wrong about everything.
Then I touched her head.
Wrong. Completely wrong. This dog's skull shape was slightly different. No small scar behind her left ear—the one Stella had gotten as a puppy playing with another dog. The breathing pattern was wrong too, missing the slight irregularity Stella had from puppy asthma.
And most importantly...
My hand moved to her left front paw, searching for the mark I'd touched a thousand times.
Smooth fur. No star-shaped white marking.
My world shattered all over again.
"This is not my Stella."