Chap­ter 49 begins in the ear­ly morn­ing hours, after the event­ful night, when Har­ry had already left to check on Con­nor at the hotel. Max and I find our­selves lin­ger­ing in the court­yard of a man­sion owned by the head of Para­mount, a set­ting filled with opu­lence and grandeur. The sooth­ing sound of water spray­ing from the cir­cu­lar foun­tain above us adds a serene back­drop as we sit togeth­er, reflect­ing on the night’s suc­cess and what we’ve accom­plished, both pro­fes­sion­al­ly and per­son­al­ly. Max’s limo pulls up, a famil­iar sight, but one that sig­nals the end of our evening togeth­er.

Max offers to give me a ride back to my hotel, his casu­al tone bely­ing the under­cur­rent of the night’s ten­sion. When I ask where his date has gone, he non­cha­lant­ly shrugs, admit­ting she was more inter­est­ed in the tick­ets than his com­pa­ny. It’s a moment that light­ens the mood, as I joke about his “poor” sit­u­a­tion, yet Max dis­miss­es it with a grin, claim­ing that he’s just spent the evening with the most beau­ti­ful woman in the world—me. His flir­ta­tious words, though charm­ing, are met with my play­ful eye roll. Still, when he offers a more hum­ble ges­ture, sug­gest­ing we go grab ham­burg­ers, my curios­i­ty is piqued.

I had every inten­tion of going back to my hotel, to be with Con­nor, to feel the com­fort of my rou­tine. But as Max opens the limo door and invites me to join him, the idea of a late-night burg­er seems odd­ly appeal­ing, even in my glam­orous gown. We dri­ve to a near­by Jack in the Box, where the limo dri­ver strug­gles to nav­i­gate the dri­ve-through, lead­ing Max and I to decide it’s eas­i­er to step inside. There we stand, com­plete­ly out of place in our for­mal attire, behind a group of teenagers order­ing fries. It’s a sur­re­al moment, one that I wouldn’t have imag­ined hap­pen­ing that night, but Max, ever the gen­tle­man, doesn’t seem phased.

As we reach the front of the line, the cashier, rec­og­niz­ing me instant­ly, reacts with a lev­el of excite­ment I’d grown accus­tomed to but nev­er quite com­fort­able with. Her excla­ma­tion, “Oh, my God! You’re Eve­lyn Hugo!” sets off a chain reac­tion. I laugh it off, using the line I’d per­fect­ed over the years: “I have no idea what you’re talk­ing about.” It’s an auto­mat­ic defense mech­a­nism, one that’s worked count­less times before, and tonight is no dif­fer­ent. The reac­tion from the staff and cus­tomers only grows, as the cashier calls out to oth­ers to wit­ness the sight of me, stand­ing in a gown in a fast-food restau­rant.

Max, who finds the sit­u­a­tion amus­ing, tries to remain light­heart­ed, but the grow­ing crowd begins to encir­cle us. I can feel the eyes of every­one in the room, their curios­i­ty and admi­ra­tion more intru­sive than flat­ter­ing at this point. What start­ed as an inno­cent detour for food quick­ly esca­lates into a scene, with more and more peo­ple from the back of the restau­rant com­ing for­ward to take a look. The sense of being on display—like a caged animal—is some­thing I’ve nev­er quite got­ten used to. Despite the dis­com­fort, I main­tain com­po­sure, sign­ing auto­graphs and polite­ly nod­ding at the requests for pho­tos, hop­ing for an escape soon.

Max, ever the prag­ma­tist, tries to ease the sit­u­a­tion by ask­ing for the burg­ers, but his casu­al request is drowned out by the fren­zy around us. The enthu­si­asm is over­whelm­ing, but I do my best to remain kind, sign­ing paper menus and hats that are shoved in my direc­tion. Even as I repeat­ed­ly say, “We real­ly should be going,” the crowd only grows more per­sis­tent, unwill­ing to let the moment end. It’s the para­dox of fame—the desire for per­son­al space con­stant­ly clash­ing with the public’s need for acknowl­edg­ment. As one of the old­er women in the crowd men­tions see­ing me win an Oscar just hours ear­li­er, I nod, acknowl­edg­ing her obser­va­tion but turn­ing the atten­tion back to Max, who, with a sim­ple wave, claims his own share of the acco­lades.

Still, the scene doesn’t ease, and Max, ever pro­tec­tive, steps in, urg­ing the crowd to give me some space. He effort­less­ly takes charge, his voice cut­ting through the noise as he clears a path for us. With the burg­ers final­ly in hand, he picks me up, toss­ing me over his shoul­der in a way that’s both play­ful and assertive. We exit the restau­rant, Max car­ry­ing me as if we’re escap­ing a mad house, and I can’t help but laugh at the absur­di­ty of it all. The limo ride back to the hotel is a qui­et respite after the chaos, though I find myself reflect­ing on the con­trast­ing worlds I exist in—the glam­orous, spot­light-filled life I lead and the nor­mal­cy I crave in pri­vate moments like this.