13. Bailey
BAILEY
The elevator doors open to a different world.
Soft lighting, gold accents, live string quartet playing some dramatic, modern twist on Radiohead.
Everyone’s dressed like their tuxedos have credits in Oscar-winning films. Floor-to-ceiling windows show off the glittering sprawl of Los Angeles, stretching out like a promise beneath us.
This is the kind of party that makes careers. And I am so ready to be made.
I step out into the room and let the energy hit me—champagne flutes, air kisses, names dropped just loudly enough to be recognized. The ballroom is high-gloss, top-floor, and humming with that strange, electric tension that only happens when everyone in the room wants something.
I want this role. More than I’ve wanted anything in years.
I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirrored column—classic black gown, slit high on my left thigh, neckline low, hair slicked back like I’m channeling Old Hollywood with a knife hidden in my garter. I look right. Like I belong here.
“Eyes up, Bailey,” Wesley murmurs from behind me, voice light. “You’re about to cause a scene.”
I don’t turn, but I smile. “You mean the scene I was born to cause?”
Sean steps up to my right, all sharp lines and quiet presence. “We stick to the wall unless you say otherwise.”
“Copy that,” Huck grunts, scanning the crowd like he’s looking for someone to punch in the face. He’s wearing a tux that shouldn’t fit as well as it does and looks about two minutes from growling at someone for breathing near me.
It’s…annoying. And kind of hot. All three of them dressed to the nines is too much for my libido to take. I roll my eyes and murmur, “You know, I used to be allowed to pee without security.”
“ Used to ,” Sean says without missing a beat. They fan out behind me as I step into the ballroom. It’s showtime.
I spot Friedburg by the bar.
Short, balding but still silver-haired at the edges, wearing what can only be described as golf attire, with a glass of something aged in his hand and two studio execs hanging on his every nod.
He looks exactly how I’ve always seen him in the news—barely managed chaos.
And everyone loves him for it. His kooky reputation is the stuff of Hollywood legend, and since he’s hosting the party, I’m betting no one told him he should dress up.
I take a step in his direction, plotting my opening line.
That’s when I feel it. A prickle. A shift in the room’s energy. The kind of instinct you only develop after years of pretending to smile through clenched teeth.
I turn my head. And there he is. My fucking shadow. David. Slipping through the crowd like raw sewage water through cracked streets.
He’s dressed for the occasion—black suit, slightly rumpled collar, perfect amount of stubble to look “harmless.” And he’s already walking toward me.
Sean sees him first. He stiffens across the room. Wesley glances my way, his expression tightening. Huck’s hands curl into fists, and I swear he growls. They start to move, almost in sync.
I lift one hand. Stop. They freeze. Thank God. I don’t need them to make a scene here. They’re supposed to blend in, as much as they ever could.
“You keep your dogs on a leash, huh?” he murmurs as he approaches.
“Still mistaking protectiveness for obedience, huh?”
He doesn’t laugh. Just holds out a hand. “Dance with me.”
I hesitate.
Behind him, I can feel my bodyguards shifting. Calculating. I turn, glance at Sean. He shakes his head. Huck raises a judgmental brow. Wesley mouths, Don’t. But I do.
Because if I say no, he’ll be the one to make a scene, and I won’t give Friedburg any reason to second-guess me tonight.
So I place my hand in David’s and let him lead me to the floor. His hand is warm against mine. Gross. The music is soft and cinematic, all string instruments and swaying bodies. Around us, producers and actors and people with power are smiling and spinning and sipping.
And I’m dancing with the man who once made me crawl to amuse himself and strangers.
I keep my hand light in his. He pulls me in closer than necessary. Like always. This time, I don’t fight it. I keep my smile tight and my voice lighter. “This better go better than the last time you tried to dance with me.”
He raises a brow. “You mean when you accused me of threatening you?”
I raise mine back. “You did threaten me.”
“You’re so dramatic,” he says, chuckling. “That’s why you’re such a great actress.”
I freeze for half a beat. Not because of the gaslighting. Because of the word. Great.
He’s never called me that. Not once. Not in ten years of auditions, callbacks, script readings, and performances that broke my body open. He’s called me difficult. He’s called me pretty. He’s called me selfish.
But never great .
He sees the surprise in my face and smiles—almost sheepishly. “I always thought you were. But I didn’t say it then. I thought if I pushed you harder, you’d prove me right.”
I stare at him. This is wrong. This is so wrong. He’s buttering me up for something.
He softens his voice. “You look incredible tonight, Bailey.”
I start to pull back.
He tightens his grip. “Don’t make a scene. Not here. Not when he’s watching you.”
I follow his gaze.
Friedburg. Of course.
I try to smile. “You don’t control me anymore, David.”
He leans in, just enough that no one else can hear. “If you walk away now, I’ll make sure you don’t get that role. Friedburg’s people are already whispering. I’ll give them something to scream about.”
I stiffen.
“Come with me. Two minutes. You do that, I walk away clean. No leaks. No drama. No more lawyers. No more court orders. We resume normal ex-spouse activities. I let the renaming of my children drop. I won’t say a word to Friedburg.”
This is a bad idea. I know it. He’s dangling everything I want in front of me for a reason.
But it is everything I want from him. “Let me tell them I’m?—”
“No.” His voice sharpens. “Don’t alert your little guard dogs. Or I’ll take this party down with me. I want a private moment with the mother of my children. Is that too much to ask?”
I don’t look at the guys. I don’t move. My heart pounds like a war drum in my throat. He laid out the conditions. If he’ll give me everything I want, then I can give him a few minutes of my time. I’ll just keep my distance from him, and that will be that.
“Two minutes. Starting now.”
He smiles like he’s already won. He keeps his arm at my waist, guiding me to the elevator. “I remember how much you enjoy the stars.”
“What about it?”
David steps into the elevator first, still wearing that practiced smile like it’s stitched to his face. “Follow me for a view to die for.”
What else can I do? I follow and watch as he presses the button for the roof.
The rooftop is mostly dark—glowing fairy lights around the perimeter, but no heaters, no music.
No people. Just the cool wind knifing through my gown and the kind of silence that presses against your skin.
I wrap my arms around myself. It is beautiful up here, to be fair to him.
“It’s lovely up here. Thanks for the view. We should be going?—”
David walks to the edge of the roof, right up to the railing, and stares out over the city like it belongs to him.
I don’t follow, preferring distance. “Alright. You’ve got one more minute.”
He turns around slowly. “I used to imagine this. You in a dress like that. At a party like this. Standing next to me.”
“You’re not standing next to me,” I say.
His smile flickers. Then fades. “I gave you everything, Bailey.”
“You gave me bruises and trauma. The only thing you gave me worth anything is Maeve and Eli. Don’t rewrite history.”
“I made you,” he snaps. “I supported you. I gave you structure. ”
“No,” I say, stepping back. “You gave me cages. And pain I’m still unpacking in therapy.”
He steps forward. I step back. The wind gusts again, hard this time, and my heels scrape across the rooftop tile. He’s too close. He sees it.
“You’re scared,” he murmurs. A sneer forms over his face.
“I’m careful, because I am not a moron and my memory works just fine.”
“No,” he says. “You’re not a moron. But still came up here…” He steps even closer.
My back hits the railing. I didn’t realize how close I was to the edge. Shit. I grip it hard, metal cold and sharp beneath my fingers. “What are you doing, David?”
He leans in, voice low. “You’re going to walk back down there with me, smile for the cameras as we head for my car and pretend none of this ever happened. And then we will go to my house and talk things out the way we should have before you called a lawyer.”
My stomach sinks. “Why would I do that?”
“Because you’re one headline away from losing everything. And I still know exactly how to write it. So you will obey, like the good little submissive I know you can be.”
“I will not,” I growl at him.
“You’re mine, Bailey. You’ve always been mine?—”
“Get the fuck away from me, David!” My voice cracks. I hate it, but I can’t help it.
He smirks at that. “Aw, see? There she is. The girl I trained up into a woman on her knees. That tremble in your tenor, the weakness in your body. Fragile for me. Breaking for me. Always for me.”
I snap, “Fuck you!”
His hand rears back to slap me.
But this time, I don’t cower. I stand tall. Jut my chin up. He might hit me, but I will not fucking shrink from him. Never again.
And all that superiority drains from his face. His hand lowers slowly. “Who?”
“What?”
“Who did this to you?”
“The fuck are you talking about?”
His eyes narrow. “Doesn’t matter. Not really. Whoever made you think you were anything more than a pet, he’s gone. You are my pet, and you always will be. One way, or another.” Those eyes dart past me, over the edge of the railing. “Bet it’s a nice breeze on the way down. Wanna find out?”
My heart slams. I’m shaking. I can’t breathe. Panic claws at me from the inside. I have nowhere to go—the railing is pressed against me at the small of my back. I’ve never been able to fight him. Take a slap, sure. But fighting is another beast entirely.
He moves one hand toward my throat like he’s testing how far he can go.
“I remember how much you loved it when I choked you. How much you liked it, the closer you were to death. The way you’d climax right before blacking out.
Are you wet right now? All that fear coursing through your veins?
Do you think you’d orgasm from falling off the roof? ”