by Cora Kenborn
“I don’t know what happened. It wasn’t you. It’s me. The dreams are getting worse and more real.” Hugging her arms around her chest, she whispers, “Sometimes, I don’t know if I’m even dreaming anymore.”
I stiffen, blood roaring in my ears as previous misfired connections start lining up. I want her to stop talking. I don’t want to know anymore. Whoever said ignorance is bliss was a smart motherfucker. Knowledge only makes a man choose between right and wrong. The shitty thing is that both end with someone losing everything.
Before I can stop her, Angel swings her leg over the chaise lounge and straddles me. I try to turn away, but she captures my face between her hands, forcing me to look at her. “Dominic, I want to be with you, but what you said—”
“Look, I get it,” I say, dislodging her hold. “You don’t have to explain.”
“No, I do,” she argues, her protests coming out in frantic rasps as she fists my shirt. “Because you’re all I have. And if I don’t talk about it and get it out, then it stays inside. It builds and builds and soon it’ll be so crowded there won’t be room for me anymore.”
It shouldn’t make sense, but it does. The anger that has been building inside me all day stills, and I tuck her hair behind her ear. “Tell me.”
That small action seems to center her, and she lets out a soft breath, her fingers unclenching my shirt. “Being with you wasn’t the problem. It’s just that you’ve never said those words, and I’ve never felt like that before. It’s like…” Her eyes darken. “It’s like it wasn’t you saying them.”
I almost don’t ask because I’m afraid of the answer. “Has another man ever called you that?”
She shakes her head. “No. But that feeling.” A shiver ripples down her spine. “I’ve had bad dreams all my life. So bad I’d wake up screaming.” She inhales a labored breath. “I thought I got them under control. But then you came into my life, and I moved in here, and they came back. This scratching in the back of my head started again. But none of it’s the same, Dominic. Everything’s different. More vivid. More real. I’m seeing things and hearing things. Things that make no sense.”
“Rook, your life was upended. All that stress has to come out somehow. Not to mention the pressure you’re under with the movie and the constant press. It’s enough to drive anyone—”
“Crazy?” she finishes with a sad smile.
“You’re not crazy.”
“No? Then why did I lose my shit when you called me your ‘special girl’? Why did your face turn into zigzags, and why did I hear a woman laughing? If I’m not crazy then why do I keep counting in my head, but only make it to five before my throat feels like it’s stuffed with cotton balls? Answer me that.”
God, I wish there was a way I could.
Emotion claws up my throat as I trail my thumb down her cheek, catching the tears as they fall. I can’t give her answers, only a vow. “I will never let anyone hurt you.”
Not even you.
“Promise?” Tears fall harder as she collapses against me, her lips seeking a confirmation she won’t find. Instead of offering hollow words, I seal my vow with the only honest thing between us. I push her skirt up as she frantically undoes my belt. The minute I sink into her, she throws her head back, her cries drowning out my curses.
Curses because everything’s unraveling.
Curses because I’m not sure she knows whether her tears are from coming undone or coming unglued.
And curses because I won’t make her a promise I can’t keep.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Angel
“I don’t know why you look like you’re about to throw up. It’s my ass on the line. You’re just arm candy.”
I look across the limo to find a crooked grin tugging at Noah’s mouth. “Sorry,” I mumble, smoothing my fingers over the red beads of my gown. “First red carpet jitters.” Then catching myself, I add, “You know, that I remember.”
He waves a dismissive hand. “Piece of cake as long as you follow three rules.” Straightening his already perfect bowtie, he ticks them off on his fingers. “Don’t trip, smile like you’re at Disneyland, and don’t trip.”
“You repeated rules one and three.”
He nods, taking a generous sip of champagne. “Then you should listen.”
“Isn’t that a little dramatic?”
“So is taking out an entire row of ABC affiliates.”
I laugh, breaking the tension and my nerves, which never seem to settle these days. In the two weeks since our confrontation on the balcony, Dominic and I have existed in a calm and even-keeled state.
I hate it.
I miss the old Dominic. The one who threw out sarcastic comments and dared me to come back at him. The one who riled me up just to watch me burn, then turned up the heat and melted me into oblivion.
I know he still wants me. The passion is as potent as ever. It’s the presence that’s gone. We may be together, but he’s not with me. He’s somewhere else, and I don’t know how to bring him back.
“Don’t worry, doll,” Noah says, covering my hand. “He’ll be here.”
Yeah, lurking in the crowd pretending not to know me.
I force a smile. “I know. However, I’m happy to be your date. Even if it wasn’t by choice.” As always, my timing is impeccably bad. Noah’s good mood fades, the reminder drawing a scowl to his chiseled face.
Our pairing is another Greg Rosten publicity stunt. After Noah’s announcement sent our ill-fated “romance” down the toilet, Rosten has taken every opportunity to get back at him by putting me on his arm, making sure Brent stays hidden in the shadows.
Case in point, tonight—the red carpet premiere of Noah’s latest movie. A moment Noah should be sharing with the man who owns his heart, not me.
It’s not much easier for me. Dominic and I are still forced to sneak around like teenagers. The world may love and adore me, but Dominic insists they aren’t ready to accept him. I don’t care what anyone thinks. I just wish he didn’t, either.
We ride the rest of the way in silence. By the time the car stops, my hand is on my stomach, and my lunch is threatening to come up.
Ever the professional, Noah plasters on a brilliant smile while exiting the limo then turns and offers his hand. “You ready to do this thing, Romanov?”
I blow out a shaky breath and take his hand. “Not in the least.”
The red carpet is everything like it seems on TV, only a hundred times worse. Noah is right, the carpet is boobytrapped with snags and rolls that catch my heels more than once. Thankfully, I have a tight grip on his arm, or I’d have long been paparazzi roadkill.
Every stop, every camera flash, every call of my name, I search for the man who’s become my island in this storm. I don’t care if he won’t acknowledge me. I don’t care if he’s here under the guise of a BTN reporter. I just need to see him.
But there’s nothing. No wild, dark hair. No thick stubble. No tattoos. No smirk.
My eyes sting with the threat of tears, and that’s when they start.
The voices.
“Stop crying! Tears are a tool not a weakness.”
The static.
“My name? It’s…it’s… Angel.”
The zigzag lines and unbearable scratching.
“Where are we going?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Somewhere safe.”
“Alexandra?” Like a windshield wiper scraping across my muddled mind, Noah’s voice drags me back to the flashing cameras and incessant shouts. Blinking, I look up at him to find his eyebrows drawn together in concern. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” Clearing my throat, I run a hand down my gown. “Just a little overwhelmed.”
“Well maybe this will help.” Taking hold of my shoulders, he turns me forty-five degrees to where a pair of pale blue eyes ensnares me, dragging me under while lifting me up.
The breath I let out sounds like a prayer and feels like a punch. He doesn’t smile, but I don’t need him to.
My Dominic doesn’t smile, he commands.
All too soon, we’re ushered into the venue, and I lose sight of him. But the calm I feel doesn’t waver. He won’t leave. Somewhere within these walls, he’s watching.
And that occupies all the space in my head, keeping everything else out.
The movie is a hit. Noah’s performance was flawless, and there’s talk of a possible Oscar nomination. After the credits roll, he’s immediately steamrolled by anyone who’s anyone in Hollywood.
Which makes it easy to slip away.
My skin feels like it’s burning from the inside out. I can’t explain it, and I’m not sure I even want to. It’s like the worst caffeine buzz mixed with a dangerously high fever.
After applying more lipstick, I fluff my hair and exit the ladies’ room, determined to finish out the night without having a complete breakdown.
Three steps later, I slam into a hard chest.
“Alexandra, a word please.”
A thick sense of foreboding hangs in the air, and when I look up into familiar eyes, it crashes around me. “I was just on my way back—”
Rosten’s fingers close around my arm, hushed words escaping between clenched teeth. “This is a disconcerting matter that requires privacy.”
“O-okay,” I stutter as he drags me away from the crowd and down the hallway. I wait for him to stop, to plant me on my feet and start hissing one of his usual rants, but he doesn’t. He quickens his pace toward a set of double doors. “Wait,” I argue, trying unsuccessfully to dig my heels into the carpet. “Where are we going?”
“To my car.”
“I came with Noah.”
Keeping his eyes forward, he pushes the door open and steps outside, dragging me along with him. “Noah is aware I’m taking you home.”
A black stretch limo waits by the curb. Rosten barely gives me time to lift my gown before he all but pushes me inside.
Following closely behind, he shuts the door. “Drive,” he instructs, pressing a button. My heart lodges in my throat as I watch a dark partition rise, blocking the back of the limo from the front.
This is bad.
Clearing my throat, I shift away from him. “What did you need to speak with me about?”
He doesn’t say anything for a few moments. Instead, he takes his time pouring himself a glass of scotch. Returning the bottle to the bar, he indulges in a slow drink. “Your performance, Alexandra. It’s lacking.”
I gape at him. “What? You’re just now telling me this? We’re six weeks into production. We go on location in a month.”
“I was waiting for that Romanov spark to appear. Your mother had it.” He raises his glass toward me, his gaze simmering. “You had it as a little girl. I know it’s in there. It just has to be coaxed out.”
“Coaxed out,” I repeat the words slowly.
Rosten slams the rest of his drink, something in his expression changing. It’s like a tiny crack in a windshield that suddenly splinters into a fractured web. “Until you reach your full potential, I want you in my office two hours before every call time. We’ll run the scenes together. I’ll read Noah’s lines.”
“You’ll read…Sebastian?”
“Will that be a problem? Because if you can’t handle the work, it’s not too late to pull Greta back in.” His lips part in a sadistic smile. “Or maybe Kya would be more professional.”
I let out a rattled breath.
“Of course, if you break your contract with Silverline, then you break our contract. Do I make myself clear?”
Damn him to hell.
If Kya takes over as Isabella, her career is made and mine is finished. All the lies and risks would have been for nothing. But more importantly, his promise to leave Dominic alone would no longer be valid.
Clasping my hands in my lap, I sacrifice dignity for strategy. “I need this role.”
“Good. It’s settled then. We begin on Monday.” I watch him slide over, every muscle in my body strained with tension. I’m trapped, pinned between Rosten and the door, and I swear, I’m one heartbeat away from releasing the latch and taking my chances on the 405. “This will be good for you, Alexandra,” he continues, trailing his finger up my arm. “You’ll see. I’m a very good teacher.”
This time I welcome the static. I beg for the zigzag lines. I strain to hear the voices. Because they take me to a place where Greg Rosten’s finger doesn’t trace my collarbone.
And never ever dips below it.
Sitting on the floor of my shower, I hug my knees to my chest, staring at the water as it circles the drain. I wish I were liquid. Then I could join it and melt away.
Down…
Down…
Down the drain.
“Rook? Where the hell are you?”
I blink, droplets of water gathering on my lashes. “Dominic?” His name is a whisper. My voice is shattered along with everything else.
Tears are a tool not a weakness.
Turning away from the stream, I wipe the back of my hand across my face and stand on unstable legs.
“Don’t cry, little one.”
“Where are we going?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Somewhere safe.”
“Enough,” I mumble. “No more tonight. Quiet.” Turning off the faucet, I tug a towel from the rack and wrap it around me seconds before Dominic comes barreling through the bathroom door.
“Hi.”
“Hi?” he roars, his chest heaving. “Don’t fucking ‘hi’ me! Someone said they saw you leave the premiere with Rosten. What the hell were you thinking?”
Stepping out of the shower, I hold the towel like a vice as I pass him. “He just wanted to talk about the movie, and then he dropped me off here.”
Please don’t ask me anything else.
Pulling on a silky white nightgown, I towel dry my hair and keep my head down as I climb into bed, my mind still churning.
I hear the clank of a belt and the rustle of denim hitting the floor, then the mattress dips as Dominic climbs in beside me. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
I nod. “Yep. Fine.”
Apparently, he accepts that flimsy answer, or he’s tired of going in circles. Either way, he slides across the sheets and leans over me, kissing my neck while trailing a hand across my thigh.
My throat tightens. I can’t breathe.
“I’m really tired,” I rasp before rolling over, the back of my eyes burning with unshed tears.
“Rook, I…” Whatever he was going to say, he doesn’t. Instead, he lets out a frustrated sigh and flops onto his back. “Goodnight.”
I can hear the walls coming back up. The ones I’ve spent months tearing down. Even then I don’t let the tears escape.
“Tears are a tool not a weakness.”
Especially the ones I’ve held back from the moment I ran from the gate to the moment I laid next to the man I have no doubt I’m falling in love with.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Dominic
Excess is not in my nature. As long as I have a roof over my head, food on my table, and clothes on my back, I don’t need much else. If you’d told me two months ago simple communication with a woman would become a basic need, I’d have laughed in your face.
But here I am, a week after Angel disappeared from Braddock’s movie premiere, starving for a simple word from her, a smile, anything other than the walking coma she’s turned into. Something happened between her and Rosten. Neither of them is saying shit, but I’m not an idiot.
Angel went to that party, but I’m not sure who the hell came back.
The change is so dramatic, I’ve become her shadow. I haven’t spent a night at my house since the red carpet because I’m terrified to leave her alone in this godforsaken house. Mainly, because I don’t know where her mind is, but partly because I’m worried that I do.
Like I said, that was a week ago. It’s now Saturday.
The sun is already starting to disappear over the horizon, and she’s still in bed. The same
place she’s been since she stumbled home last night from the studio, bleak eyed and silent. Worry and guilt eat away at me as I stand in the doorway staring at her curled up on the mattress, staring blankly at the wall.
Tell her.
The voice grows louder every day, but I push it down. I tell myself she’s already fragile and telling her the truth would only open a portal I can’t close. It’d be like dominoes; tipping one would set off a chain reaction. Everything would spiral out of control until there would nothing left.
I can’t let that happen. I’m protecting her.
Liar.
Coward.
You’re protecting yourself.
My fingers tighten against the door frame. “Get dressed.” She doesn’t acknowledge me, not that I’m surprised. But I’m not backing down anymore. Not today. Storming across the bedroom, I jerk the covers off her and slap her ass. “I said get dressed. Now.”
That gets her attention. She halfway rolls over, her eyelids heavy. “Why? It’s my day off.”
“Exactly. We’re going out.”
“Out where?”
“What do you mean, ‘out where’? Out there.” I jab a finger toward the shaded window. “In public. Around people. Out of this fucking house.”
Her eyes widen a fraction, which is probably the most reaction I’ve gotten out of her in days. “But people will see us. Together,” she adds as if it’s a forbidden word.
I guess it is, and that’s my fault. I’ve done nothing but force her to keep our affair hidden away like a dirty little secret.
“Let me worry about that,” I say, rounding the bed and opening the window shade. What’s left of the diminishing sun pours into the room. “You have forty-five minutes.” Glancing over my shoulder, I add, “And none of this glamor shit. Dress like a normal person for once.”
“Dominic, I need more than—”
