by Cora Kenborn
“But I’m not prepared.”
“Even better,” he says, his eyes shifting over my shoulder.
“What do you mean, even better?” Twisting around, I stare at the chaotic mob rushing across his lawn. As they draw closer, time rewinds, and memories I’ve fought so hard to lock away resurface, clawing at my chest and hissing in my ear.
“Jade, what do you have to say about the allegations?”
“Jade, did you really trade sex for stardom?”
“Jade, what do you have to say to Paulo Bellini’s victims?”
“I can’t do this,” I whisper.
“Angel—”
Resentment slices through me like a hot blade. “Don’t ‘Angel’ me! You sat behind your computer screen while they tore my life apart.” I pause, swallowing the bile rising in my throat. “You don’t know what I went through.”
I expect him to deflect with one of his sarcastic comebacks, but instead, he stands quietly, his jaw locked, and his eyes shadowed in thought. “You’re right. I don’t. But they’re not in control this time; you are.”
“It doesn’t feel that way.”
“Look at them.” He tips his chin toward the lawn. I want to defy him, but something holds me back, and I comply, turning toward the herd as he adds, “They’re not strong; they’re starving.”
“For what?”
“Information, rook. Their Romanov addiction has been unfed for fifteen years. All I’ve done is throw a scrap of bread into a hungry crowd. What they sink their teeth into next is up to you.”
“How is it up to me?”
“You claim to be a good actress, so prove it.” A deadly challenge flickers in those glacial blue eyes. “You blame me for what could have been. Well, this is your stage, and those are your fans. Take everything you learned in the last twenty-four hours and create Alexandra Romanov.”
A second chance. It’s all I’ve wanted and feared tied together and laid at my feet. Losing everything once was hard enough, but I got through it. I salvaged the pieces Hollywood left behind and went on with my life. Because I didn’t fail me. Fate failed me. Luck failed me.
Dominic McCallum and his unholy crusade failed me.
But along with a second chance at success comes a second chance at failure. And this time, fate came for me. Luck sought me out. And Dominic McCallum opened the door. If I blow it this time, I have no one to blame.
“But I don’t know her personality,” I push back.
Dominic meets my excuses head on. “It’s whatever you want it to be. You’re writing your own lines in this movie, rook.”
So, despite the fear still swirling in my chest, I step forward. Because despite what Dominic says, deep down, a part of me knows this is all temporary. All fame is fleeting, and my star will burn out. However, I’ve wasted a lifetime wishing to be someone else. Now I can be.
I don’t look at Dominic again, but I know he’s behind me as the band of paparazzi close in. I feel his hand brace against my lower back. Steadying me. Reassuring me.
“Remember,” he whispers in my ear. “Less is more.”
“You’re writing your own lines in this movie.”
As microphones shove in my face and cameras flash, I lift my chin. “May we help you?”
The faces dotting the front line blank, momentarily stunned by my calm question. However, a buzz quickly hums through the crowd as one particularly pushy man in a dirty T-shirt and a baseball cap steps forward, shoving his microphone past me and straight into Dominic’s face. “Dominic McCallum, I presume?”
Dominic shrugs. “You presume a lot.”
Paparazzi are a unique breed. During my brief fifteen minutes of fame, I learned they’re journalistic vampires hovering in the shadows just waiting to sink their fangs into whomever they can bleed dry for a buck. Unfortunately, silence only feeds their blood lust.
Which is obvious when the baseball hat guy rolls his eyes and tosses out a succession of rapid-fire questions. “What’s with the news blast? Did you really find Alexandra Romanov or is this just some publicity stunt? Is this her? Why come forward now?”
I stiffen, familiar anxiety seeping through the cracks in my façade. Dominic, on the other hand, remains unbothered. “Why don’t you ask her yourself?”
Dozens of paparazzi fall silent as Dominic settles that lethal gaze on me. An irrational part of me wants to dive back inside the car, lock the doors, and bury my head in my hands until they all go away. But that’s ridiculous. This is what I agreed to, and fear or no fear, there’s no turning back now.
Remember, less is more.
I clear my throat and force a timid smile. “As I’m sure you all can imagine, the last twenty-four hours have been very confusing and overwhelming. While I appreciate your interest, please understand I can’t give you any information until we’ve met with the estate.”
“The Romanov estate, you mean,” the baseball hat guy says, inching closer. “So, you are claiming to be Alexandra Romanov, the missing heiress, correct?”
My smile wavers. “Again, I can’t comment at this time. Thank you.”
Determined to have the last word, the baseball hat guy mutters something I barely hear and reaches for my arm, only to be met with a hard shove to his chest. Dominic glares at him as he steers me through a second wave of questions and flashes on our way up the cement walkway.
“How did you just happen to find her, McCallum?” Hat guy sneers as he scans my ripped shorts and worn camouflage shirt. “Because she doesn’t look like an heiress. She looks like a—”
“A what?” I snap, twisting around just as Dominic’s fingers dig into my ribcage. “Say it. I fucking dare you.”
He doesn’t answer. And why should he? I broke character. He hit a nerve, and I went off script. Instead of dangling a carrot and pulling it back, I dumped an entire vegetable garden in their laps.
There’s a low curse behind me as Dominic shoves a key in the door. “That’s enough for tonight,” he growls.
That should’ve been it, and in a normal world, it would’ve been. But this is Hollywood. Nothing here is normal, and the only way to win a war of words is to have the last one.
“Can you tell us where she’s been for fifteen years?”
Dominic stills, his jaw clenched. Seconds pass like minutes, until slowly, he glances over his shoulder. “Isn’t it obvious? Somewhere safe.” Without another word, he pushes me inside and slams the door.
Dominic’s phone rang minutes after we walked inside. While I didn’t expect him to put it on speaker mode, the few mumbled words he flung before disappearing down the hallway and slamming the door left me a little speechless.
Maybe he’s mad about the location of his home being discovered by the paparazzi. Maybe he’s pissed at the way I handled them. Or, maybe, he’s regretting this whole thing as much as I am. Whatever the reason, I’m not offended by the lack of hospitality.
I’m too busy spinning in my own wheelhouse of emotions to care.
“Isn’t it obvious? Somewhere safe.”
There’s a lingering echo entwined around those words. It’s as if they exist on two sides of an opaque door. If I squint hard enough, I can see shapes and movement on the opposite side. I can hear murmurs and voices. But I can’t distinguish anything. It’s too cloudy and muddled.
Except for those words.
I know they’re there. Only the more I listen to them repeat inside my head, the less it’s Dominic who’s saying them. The voice on the other side of the door is familiar yet foreign. Comforting yet frightening.
And just like before, there’s a scratching at the back of my mind. As always, the minute I reach for it, it stops. Frustrated, I open my eyes, blinking as I take in the overwhelming brightness of the living room. I stare at the white painted walls, the starkness of the white leather couch I’m sitting on, and the unstained white carpet my feet rest on. But white can be deceiving, and light can tell lies.
A truth I’m learning every time I close my eyes.
“Screw this.” I climb to my feet, intent on ending this silent standoff. I get that Dominic is pissed, but tough shit. He’s not the one about to have his entire life upended and then dissected under a microscope.
Fisting my hands, I stomp down the hallway, flipping on lights and making as much noise as possible. I didn’t ask to be here. I sure as hell didn’t ask to nosedive into notoriety. I deserve answers, and I’m damn well going to get them.
“Dominic!” I yell, banging on the door. “Open up. I want to talk to you.” Silence. I pound again. “I’m not fucking around. Open the damn door, or I’m coming in.” Silence.
My hand hesitates on the doorknob. Yeah, I threw out the threat, but, unfortunately, I didn’t think much beyond it. It’s forward to just barge into a man’s room. Especially one who made it pretty clear he’d rather stare at four walls than my face.
One who had no issue breaking into my apartment.
The memory drives whatever hesitation I have into the ground, and I shove the door wide open to find his room empty.
Where the hell could he have gone? It’s not like he lives in a sprawling estate. In fact, the small two-bedroom ranch is surprisingly tiny, considering the net worth of his gossip-infused empire. Dirty laundry is a lucrative business.
I wander back through the house and catch the flicker of an orange glow through a glass door near the kitchen. With a few paparazzi still lingering around, I should be more hesitant, but I’m drawn to it, and before I can stop myself, I step outside.
Dominic sits in a lawn chair, his head tipped back and his eyes closed. One hand cradles a half-empty liquor bottle while the other pulls the lit cigarette from his lips. “What took you so long?”
“How did you get out here?”
Lifting his hand back to his mouth, he takes a long drag off the end of his cigarette. “Through a door.”
“I know that, jackass. I meant without me seeing you.”
“There’s more than one door in this house, rook.” He blows a ring of smoke into the night air, a small smirk curling his top lip as he lifts the bottle. “And more than one stash. A man should always be prepared.”
I hate myself for staring, but I can’t stop. I’m too busy remembering how hard those lips claimed mine. How forbidden they tasted. How quickly I folded to their rough demands.
Clearing my throat, I jerk the cigarette out of his hand and stomp it out under the rubber sole of my Chuck. “I told you those things are going to kill you one day.”
Shrugging, he tips his head toward the paparazzi-infested lawn. “The line starts back there.”
I hate how unaffected he is about everything. Sighing, I collapse onto the lounge chair beside him. “How long have you been out here?”
“Long enough. Here.” He shoves the bottle across a small glass table between us. “You need to take it down a few notches.”
I shake my head. “Slugging whiskey out of a bottle isn’t my style.”
“Suit yourself.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him tip the bottle back, his gaze burning into the side of my face. For a moment I consider going back inside, but to do what? Sit in silence? Answer my own questions? Stew in my own regret and fear?
Fuck that.
I clear my throat. “So, what was the disappearing act all about?”
He shrugs. “I had to make a few phone calls.”
I’m so tired of his non-answers I could scream. “You care to elaborate?”
“Nope.”
I shouldn’t be surprised. He can have his silence for now. I can play this game too. Evade and deflect are tricks right out of the Angel Smith playbook. Dominic can dress it up and call it whatever he wants, but I know an ulterior motive when I see one.
It’s like Violet always says: putting makeup on a lie doesn’t make it the truth.
Does that mean I don’t believe the future of BTN is on the line? Quite the opposite. What we’re doing carries too high of a risk for money not to be his driving force. But I’d be a fool to think there wasn’t an underlying motive as well.
Dominic straddles the lounge chair. As if wrestling with what to say, he shifts forward, the bottle clenched between his palms as his forearms rest on his thighs. “You did all right out there.”
“Just all right?”
The thin olive branch snaps along with his mood. “What the fuck do you want?” he grumbles, slamming the bottle on the table. “A medal? You let that asshole get to you and broke character. Whatever else you said won’t matter. That’s the stuff they’ll print.”
I resist the urge to smack him. “What the hell did you expect? I did the best I could. It’s not like you gave me any warning.” Then something ugly whispers in my ear. Something unfamiliar but dangerously sharp. “Is that what you and your girlfriend were doing in that fishbowl you call an office? Making bets on how long it would take for the paparazzi to tear me apart?”
They’re baseless accusations. I have no idea if that woman is his girlfriend, and it’s none of my business. He can do whatever the hell he wants. But I saw how close they looked.
Dominic turns, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Are you jealous?”
“What?” I spin around, almost knocking the bottle off the table. “Don’t be stupid. I don’t care who you do”—his smirk widens as I catch myself—“I mean what you do. I’m here for the money.” Gritting my teeth, I jerk the bottle off the table, ignoring the trail of fire it leaves in my throat.
Dominic quirks an eyebrow. “I thought slugging whiskey out of a bottle wasn’t your style?”
“Yeah, well neither is hijacking someone else’s identity.” I scowl, shoving it back toward his chest. “Guess there’s a first time for everything.”
“Are you seriously pulling the moral card on me right now? You just lied to the entire world.” Grabbing the bottle, he slouches back in his chair, pointing the mouth in my direction. “Don’t pretend we don’t walk the same crooked line.”
His assessment hits home. For as much as I condemn him for what he’s done, I’m the one stealing another woman’s identity. This is getting my card punched straight to hell kind of shit.
I wrap my arms around my chest. “You’re right.”
I expect him to gloat, but his voice takes on a brittle edge. “Nobody likes having a mirror shoved in their face. That’s why it’s called the ugly truth. What we’ve done, where we’ve been, what we’ve seen—none of it’s a pretty reflection. No matter how hard a person sweeps their past under a rug, it always finds a way out.”
Swiping the bottle, I swallow another mouthful of liquid fire. “And if it doesn’t, you’ll happily dig it out yourself.”
“Cheap shot, rook,” he chuckles. “Clean, but cheap.”
“Forget it.” Setting the bottle by his feet, I wave a dismissive hand and stand. “I’ll leave you to your booze and bullshit.”
I don’t know why I’m so mad. That’s a lie. I’m mad because I’m desperate to hold on to the blame I feel slipping through my fingers. I’m mad because I’m the one standing in the middle of a glass house holding a handful of sharp rocks. Mostly, I’m mad because I don’t know if I’ve acquired a conscience or a weakness.
After all, guilt and gaslighting are only separated by a fraction of a degree.
“Wait.” Dominic’s hand clamps around my arm, and my gaze falls to where his fingers encircle my wrist. “Look, I know I’m not your favorite person, but we’re stuck together for the foreseeable future in a whole funhouse full of mirrors.”
I glance up. “Meaning?”
“Meaning pasts are like assholes; everybody has one. Some are uglier than others, but they’re all full of shit.” Pausing, he pins me with a heated stare. “But I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.”
Chapter Fifteen
Angel
It’s a loaded offer. Tempting but also dangerous.
“It’s not a happy story,” I admit, pulling away from his hold.
Domin
ic lets me go without protest, and flops back in his chair, leaving one leg dangling over the side. “I’m not a happy guy.”
His rough voice scrapes over my skin like sandpaper, but instead of turning away, I find myself arching toward it. I’m like Icarus flying toward the sun—knowing I’ll incinerate yet still craving the burn.
I don’t want to open up. I don’t want to feel. I don’t want this pathetic flutter in my stomach, and I sure as hell don’t want this infuriating ache between my legs. But the more I’m near Dominic, the less I can deny either.
And that terrifies me.
For a man whose entire life is based on exposing secrets, Dominic has kept his own cards close to his chest. And while the last thing I want to do is open up a portal and dive into the abyss, I don’t know if I’ll get an opportunity like this again. So, against my better judgment, I sit back down.
“There’s not much to tell. I grew up poor, just like you said. Left a shitty group home when I was sixteen.”
He stares at me, not a flicker of emotion on his face. “What about your parents?”
“Don’t have any.” I stare down at my hands. “I mean, obviously they exist, but not in my memory. I can’t even picture their faces. From what I was told, they weren’t worth knowing. Not that it matters. They didn’t want me, so I don’t want them. Case closed.”
“Were the people who ran the group home abusive?”
I shrug. “They were indifferent, and I was just…there.”
“Invisible.”
I glance up to where Dominic stares at me in strained silence. All of a sudden, I feel bare. Raw. Like he’s reached within and turned me inside out.
“Do you ever feel like you’re trapped in a place you don’t belong?” I ask, quietly. “Like no matter how loud you scream no one can hear you. Like if you could just spread your wings and fly, maybe you’d be okay. But you can’t—”
“Because your wings are clipped.”
My eyes snap to where Dominic stares off into the distance. “Yeah. How’d you know?”
A shadow falls across his face that looks a lot like regret. But that can’t be right. Dominic McCallum doesn’t have regrets. He’s incapable of sorrow or guilt or basic human compassion.
