A high-glamour, high-stakes thriller trailing three ambitious women as they navigate secrets, sins, and scandals during 12 days at the Cannes Film Festival.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from We Would Never Tell by Anne-Sophie Jouhanneau, which releases on April 14th 2026.
Hollywood, but make it French, for twelve days straight, as the red carpet rolls out to the riviera for the Cannes Film Festival. The most famous people are all here to celebrate themselves, while the rest of the world watches in awe. And with a heavy dose of envy, at least for three young, ambitious, talented women who can’t seem to climb up from the bottom rung of the Hollywood ladder. As they swirl in the glitz of Cannes, the VIP invitations seem so hard to come by, and the A-list so far away. It’s enough to drive them a little crazy. Enough to make them snap and do things they might—or definitely will—regret.
It’s a good thing they’re invisible . . . until a multi-million-dollar necklace vanishes and a dead body is found floating in the Mediterranean Sea. Then, the heat of the spotlight turns up so hot that they have nowhere to hide. Now their biggest dreams are even further out of reach. Or can you get away with theft and murder if you want it badly enough?
EXCERPT
Cannes Film Festival: Day One
Lou
I sat at the bar of the Carlton because I could. Because I should. I was Lou Ocean Utley— L.O.U., get it?— and soon that name would mean something. So soon. My movie was premiering at the Cannes Film Festival tomorrow. My movie. Premiering. At the Cannes Film Festival. These words had often floated in my mind like exquisite little bubbles made of dreams. Now, they were as tangible as the counter’s cool marble under my palms. Ten years of struggling to make it as an actor, and the stars had finally aligned.
I glanced around the luxurious bar; its arched windows were letting in beautiful, soft lighting, the type that made everyone look ten times better. Not that any person here needed it. They all beamed elegance. They were it. Successful, rich, accomplished. The men wore crisp shirts, top buttons undone to reveal more of their sun- kissed skin. The women had perfect posture, shiny hair, and glowed from within. Everyone here was somebody in the movie industry, in town for the festival, which started today. They belonged.
And I was here, belonging with them. I felt so moved by this memory in the making, a moment I would remember forever.
The bartender approached. She, too, dripped with chic in her formal uniform. Compared to her, I felt crummy, sagging from the nine-hour time difference from Los Angeles.
“What may I get for you, madame?”
Her formal tone lifted me right back up, the reminder that I was the customer here. I had flown over to Cannes on an impulse, feeling maybe just a tiny bit like an impostor. But only until the premiere, tomorrow. Then the world would know Lou Ocean Utley. Me, I mean.
“I’ll have a glass of champagne. The best you have.”
Whoops. Had I just blurted out a line from a script I’d read? I should have ordered rosé, or perhaps a sparkling water with a slice of lime, which was all I could afford. Maybe not even the lime. I couldn’t really afford to be in Cannes at all. My bank balance—which I’d checked when I landed a few hours earlier—was the stuff of horror movies. The poor thing had been brutally slaughtered. But I shooed it away with a smile, as if somebody was watching. When all you ever wanted was a life spent in front of the cameras, you had to cross your fingers that somebody was watching.
And tomorrow they would be. At long last.
I glanced at my phone, but there was no new message from my agent, Liza Blick.
There in ten! the last one said.
Ten was right. Because ten had become my lucky number. Ten whole years of lining benches outside casting calls with hundreds of other girls, desire drumming loudly in our ears. Ten years of filming reels in the tiny bedroom of my shared apartment, no rest until it was absolutely perfect, double chins and twitchy eyes begone. Ten years of casting directors and filmmakers swearing up and down that I was incredibly talented. But. Ten years of praying they would take the “but” back. And, in the meantime, ten years of calling out strangers’ names to come collect their orders at coffee shops around Los Angeles, because if acting wasn’t going to pay the bills yet, then grinding coffee beans in an unflattering apron would.
Now, at the age of twenty-nine (ancient by Hollywood standards but still young enough to have a thriving career, right?) I was about to become an overnight success. I needed Liza here to celebrate with me.
“Here you are, madame.”
The bartender placed the champagne flute on top of a thick paper coaster stamped with the hotel logo.
“Merci,” I said in my best accent.
I would be coming to Cannes all the time now. Promoting movies and being a star and affording champagne. No trouble. Better start learning French.
“Lou!” came a voice behind me.
My agent was here at last. I got up to hug her. Liza was in her forties, sporting wavy strawberry blond hair, a wardrobe of bold prints, and her ever-present red leather bag.
“The airline lost my luggage for a hot minute,” she said in a huff. “I had this horrifying vision of arriving in Cannes in sweatpants.”
“You look fabulous.”
I took in Liza’s matching skirt and shirt ensemble, adorned with a jungle print: pink zebras and green tigers. A choice. Not that I would judge, when my own wardrobe consisted of a few thrifted dresses (which, hopefully, wasn’t too obvious) and simple jeans and tops that I made work for both auditions and nights out. Throw in a few sundresses and denim cutoffs for summer, and that was it. One day I’d have money to spend on fancy clothes, and that day was approaching gloriously fast.
Liza’s smile fell as she took in my drink. “Champagne?”
“When in Cannes!” Liza kept looking at me strangely, so I added, “Let me order you one, too.” That was the polite thing to do.
I waved to the bartender as Liza settled in, so giddy that I forgot to think about who would pick up the tab. Not me was always the hope.
“You’re here,” Liza said, like I wasn’t seated next to her. “I didn’t think you’d actually come.”
I smiled brightly, jaw pulled extra tight.
“I’m here!”
She studied me sideways. “The family visit was good?”
I suppressed a yawn. “It was great. Clara— that’s my sister— was so happy to have me over. The kids looked all grown up! And Milan is stunning. Have you been? I loved it.”
Liza watched me more intently. “So you just arrived from there?”
I drank my champagne, allowing myself the faintest of nods. The bartender brought over Liza’s flute, and I clinked mine with hers. I took another, more generous sip. That was the problem with lies. Five seconds on the lips, and forever having to keep up their spirit. Growing up, I was taught to always be honest, to do well by doing right. Everyone knows lying is bad karma, especially to one of the most important people in your life. But that was before Liza told me that, unfortunately, the movie studio didn’t have it in their (ridiculously large) budget to pay for my trip to Cannes so I could meet my triumph.
“You’re a great aunt, flying over to help your sister,” Liza added. Geez. My lie had a few too many layers.
The story was that my older sister Clara, the accomplished architect, lived in Milan with her handsome Italian husband and their two bambinos. Clara wore pantsuits that never creased, and my nephews were so well mannered they put the rest of us to shame. And I probably would be a good aunt, if I saw them more than once a year during my dreaded yearly visit to our parents in Chicago for Thanksgiving.
It wasn’t always like that. My siblings and I were raised to believe we could accomplish anything we put our minds to. Work hard and strive for success! And that’s what the three of us did. Except that my version of it didn’t include a prestigious college education or a secure job that paid real money. My dream was different.
At sixteen, I announced I would move to Los Angeles to pursue acting after high school. My parents tried hard to talk me out of it, but that was my destiny. And who’s going to turn down meeting their destiny? Eventually, they recovered. They lent me a little money here and there when things were tight. They consoled me when I called, in tears, about yet another role I didn’t get. And I could always come home! It wasn’t too late to rectify the course of my life and score a great job, along with a loving partner. After all, my older sister and younger brother did it.
I was the one squished in the middle, with my little dream that couldn’t.
A few years in and with only a handful of commercials and small roles to my name, the veneer started to crack. Did I realize my “career” consisted primarily of serving coffee? Was I really going to have roommates forever? I was getting too old to accept handouts. I started ignoring the notifications from the family group chat. I stopped calling. I couldn’t afford to visit. I didn’t even tell them when I got this role. They’d watch me on the big screen and see for themselves how wrong they’d all been.
But Liza didn’t know that my darling sister would never beg me to come help look after the kids while her husband was on a business trip, that she would definitely not offer to cover the cost of my flight because it was my own fault that I was always broke. So I made up the Milan trip, which—what a happy coincidence—ended just as the Cannes Film Festival started. Here I was, “popping over” on my way back home to Los Angeles. Milan was so close to Cannes, it would have been a shame to miss that opportunity.
I shrugged. “Family means a lot to me.”
Liza sighed awkwardly. “It sucks that studios only comp trips for the big-name talent, but that’s how it is. Hollywood politics!”
I laughed like the whole thing was absolutely hilarious.
“I’m here now, right where I should be.”
Liza looked me deep in the eyes. “I’m glad you didn’t spend all your money coming to Cannes at this stage in your career. Like I always say, we’re playing the long game.”
I might have flown across the world on a whim, but I was not as deluded as it seemed. You see, after I’d been in LA for a while, I made a pact with myself. I would give it ten years. If my breakthrough hadn’t happened by then, I’d accept defeat. I’d admit that my family was right. I’d move home and find something else to do with my life.
I’m not sure if I meant it, or if it was simply helpful to have a timeline in mind. Did destiny have to be so vague? But in the end, I never had to find out. I got the role in Don’t Be Sad! exactly one week before my ten-year anniversary of moving to LA. If that’s not a sign, then I don’t understand the universe.
It was a star-studded movie, backed by a big studio. The directing debut of renowned actor Odetta Olson—one of my childhood heroines—and sure to get great buzz. And now it was in the official selection at Cannes, a contender for the Palme d’Or. Tomorrow was the world premiere. My role was small but significant. I had to be here. This was me meeting the life of my dreams. Smiling at my future self and saying, “We’re in for a ride, baby!”
I suppressed another yawn. Damn that jet lag. Liza took a measured sip. “How’s your hotel?”
I was (it’s probably obvious by now) not staying at the Carlton. “Really charming, and it’s not that far from the action. I love a walkable town. I discovered so many pretty little streets on the way here.”
Until the very last minute, I had hoped the movie studio would stop their idiotic nonsense and put me up somewhere nice. I’d already be “in the neighborhood.” All they had to do was book me a room. By the time I’d accepted that they weren’t going to spend a single dollar on me, there was nothing left but a crappy chain hotel far away from everything. I’d checked in a couple of hours ago, pretended not to notice the scratchy sheets and the paper- thin walls, and skipped out of there as fast as I could. To the Carlton. Where I belonged. Theoretically.
“And my pass to the premiere?” I asked, casually.
The neutral look in Liza’s eyes gave nothing away. “I’m working on it.” I clenched my teeth. “I cannot wait for tomorrow.”
I could handle not being invited to tonight’s opening ceremony. I knew to be reasonable, sometimes. You can’t ask for everything.
Liza’s phone rang, the upbeat ringtone clashing with the jazz background music. Surely, she wasn’t going to interrupt our celebration.
Apparently, I couldn’t be sure of anything.
“Honey! Yes, I’m here. Drinking champagne with a client in the middle of the afternoon. I’d say I’m in Cannes, all right.”
She winked at me. Five years ago, I’d been over the moon to sign with Liza Blick, Hollywood agent of the shiny shark variety. She had gotten me work. Not a lot, and not a lot of it well paid, but she had made me an actor. A professional. Liza had plucked me out of obscurity and placed me in shadowy parts of the industry, where I awaited my big break. Thanks to her, I was someone on the verge of something, which was a lot better than being on the edge of nothing. But right then, I might have contemplated punching her just a little bit.
She continued her conversation, oblivious. “But of course, darling! You know I’m always here for you.”
Another wink at me. I thought I recognized an Oscar-winning actor across the room and was halfway up from my stool, ready to go introduce myself.
“Don’t stare,” Liza mouthed.
“I wasn’t,” I said, glancing at the actor again.
Liza pressed her hand over her phone and whispered, “Everyone is famous here. Get used to it.”
Liza droned on about contracts to be negotiated and deals to lock in while here “across the pond.” I downed my champagne. This wasn’t exactly how I pictured my introduction to glamorous Cannes. I picked up my phone and checked my Instagram account, where I had built up to a decent following over the last few years. I shared behind the scenes of movie lots, script pages, costume fittings, that sort of thing. I spread my content as thinly as I could, like the last scoop of peanut butter, making one rehearsal session look like five different ones. Busy, busy me, manifesting my bright future. Showing my family how hard I worked at it.
To my modest but growing audience, it was the selfies that did the heavy lifting. I was a blue-eyed blond with slim features and sharp cheekbones. One day, I’d get compliments for my range of accents or how my face seamlessly contorted to convey pretty much any emotion. But for now, look at me doing yoga on the beach at sunset or lying poolside in a little bikini!
Enter my big Cannes moment.
I’d already shared a picture of the beautiful bar to kick things off, and the likes were filling up my notifications.
A story by Odetta Olson caught my attention. She’d arrived in Cannes that morning and had posted the view (sailboats, lush palm trees, you get the picture) from her hotel suite, probably a few floors above me right now. On the next slide: a rack of couture dresses brought over to her suite by her stylist, the sought-after Carly Wolf. Then, minutes ago: a rooftop bar called Le Bain with the caption, Checking out the venue for tonight’s pre- premiere party!
Liza must have noticed the look on my face because she stopped gabbing and questioned me with a perched eyebrow.
“Honey, I’ll see you in a bit, okay?” Liza said, hanging up.
I’d read up a lot on what happened in Cannes and expected there would be a party after the premiere tomorrow. If Odetta Olson was also hosting one tonight, why didn’t I know about it? I would have asked that out loud if a fifty-something man hadn’t approached us at the same moment. Liza got up to greet him.
“Patrick!” she said, as they kissed on each cheek.
Liza didn’t even introduce me.
I kept scrolling on my phone while they chatted. There had to be an explanation. Maybe it was a last- minute thing. Maybe Liza was going to tell me about it before we were interrupted.
That Patrick guy kissed her goodbye. Immediately after, Liza spotted someone else across the room.
“Sweetie, I gotta go,” Liza said, already slipping her arm through the handle of her bag.
“I’ll wait for you!”
Liza flinched. It had sounded less whiny in my head. But she wasn’t going to leave me here, on the eve of my big night? We had to celebrate.
“My schedule is packed with meetings that have been planned for weeks. If I don’t see you again, remember, we’re playing the long game.”
It was my fault then. I hadn’t told her I was coming until two days ago because I knew she’d try to talk me out of it. There I was disappointing her by turning up pretty much unannounced.
The check materialized in front of us. I looked at Liza. Liza looked at me. And then I had an idea. Maybe not the best idea in retrospect. But also not the worst I would end up having in Cannes.
“I’ll get this.”
Liza made a move for her wallet. “You don’t have to…”
I whipped out my credit card and handed it to the bartender.
“You’ll get the next one. I’m here for another four days. I really want to see you again.”
She was already waving goodbye and speed walking toward the other side of the bar to someone more important.
So I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’ve always believed in signs. But there are the signs you yearn to see and the ones your subconscious forces you to ignore. Liza liked to say that I was the perfect client. I was a hard worker, a total delight. I was following my path, enjoying the stupid journey, calling any bump in the road an “opportunity.” She loved me for it.
I slid my credit card back into my wallet, glad that I hadn’t bothered to look at the amount on the check. What I didn’t know couldn’t hurt me. And what Liza didn’t know couldn’t hurt her, either. Like I said, the universe had offered me a most fabulous role in this career- making movie, just as I was about to give up on acting.
I had made it. I was in the process of making it.
No one and nothing could take this away from me now.
At least it was nice to believe that, for the short while it lasted.
