Chapter Twenty-Four
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
ANGEL
There’s something to be said for self-reliance. Even as a teenager, wandering from shelter to shelter and street to street, I preferred being alone. With solitude came comfort and with no expectation came no disappointment.
I miss the security of isolation. When everything made sense, and I didn’t have all these conflicting emotions waging war inside my head. When every moment didn’t revolve around Dominic McCallum.
Who I haven’t seen in three days, by the way.
It’s just as well. After the party, Michaela put me on display like a show pony. Since Saturday morning, I’ve flown from LA to New York and back again, doing interviews, press junkets, daytime talk shows, late night talk shows, really late night talk shows—hell, at this point, I have no idea what I’ve said and what I haven’t. It’s all one big blur.
One thing’s for sure—America loves me. Even when a few arrogant TV hosts tried to boost ratings by stirring up the Angel Smith/Jade Saxton controversy, the public stood by me. Some going so far as to picket outside Rockefeller Plaza.
Of course, Michaela prepped me with pre-canned answers. Our story is that I saw the picture of the little girl Dominic carried around and (dramatic gasp) demanded to know why he had a picture of me.
Brilliant, right?
We thought so.
And everyone bought it. So much that nobody cared about Jade Saxton’s history with Dominic McCallum or Angel Smith’s supposedly diabolical plan to get even.
Nope. In seventy-two hours, Alexandra Romanov became a national treasure.
Sweet. Infectious. And absolutely full of shit.
Which is exactly how I feel this early on Monday morning. Full of shit and a host of other disgusting things as I leave the glass enclosed reception area of Silverline Studios and head toward the main executive building. The plastic keycard bites into my hand as I clench my fist, hesitating before opening the door.
“This is what you wanted,” I whisper. “So just suck it up and do it.”
Taking a deep breath, I open yet another glass door and step inside the building, making my way over to the elevator. As I wait for it to arrive, I can’t help but replay Dominic’s words from the party, moments before we reentered the ballroom.
“Everything in Hollywood is a smokescreen, rook. It’s not enough to just play the game. You have to own the board.”
“Own it. Right.” The elevator dings, and I step inside, inserting the keycard and counting the floors as they tick away toward the penthouse .
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Seven. Eight…
Ding.
My stomach somersaults as the doors open, and I pull out the keycard, dropping it in my purse as I make my way toward the hard-faced secretary with the resting bitch face.
“Hi, I’m—”
“Alexandra Romanov,” she says, standing quickly. “Mr. Rosten is expecting you. Please come with me.”
I follow her to another door where she knocks, opening it a few inches before announcing, “Miss Romanov is here.” I don’t hear his reply, just a low murmur as she nods her head and swings the door open. “Go right in.” Just as I start to move past her, she stops me, her palm slicing out just under my chin. “I’ll need—”
“For fuck’s sake, Susan, let her in!”
Susan, or whatever her name is, slowly lowers her arm, her tight smile widening into something resembling the Cheshire Cat—if it had a baseball bat shoved up its ass. “It’s an honor to make your acquaintance, Miss Romanov. Silverline is lucky to have you.”
“Alexandra, please have a seat.” My attention is momentarily diverted as my gaze shifts to Greg Rosten, perched behind his desk like the lord of the manor. It sets me on edge, and when I hear the door close behind me, my nerves start to snap.
Own the board.
Forcing a smile, I make my way across the office and sink into the oversized chair on the other side of his desk. “I apologize for the delay. My schedule has been a bit hectic lately.”
“I saw the interviews. You handled yourself well, Alexandra. Just like a true Romanov. Your mother would be proud.”
I tilt my head. “Just my mother? ”
“She was always the media darling,” he answers with a wink. “A people pleaser, if you will. Your father was more traditional. Set in his ways. Never liked the give and take of the business side of this industry.”
“Yes, well, be that as it may, I’m my own woman, Mr. Rosten. I may bear the Romanov name, but I’m not here to bask in my mother’s shadow. I plan to make my own mark.”
“Yes, you definitely are a woman.” His eyes slowly scan down my tailored jacket and past my sheer blouse and skirt to my legs.
I shift in my chair. “That’s not what I—”
“Alexandra.” He rises from his throne and strolls past the wall of windows, his hands locked behind his back. “I assume all contracts have been signed and made official.”
I nod. “This morning.”
“Excellent. Because projects under the Silverline name are of the utmost secrecy. It only takes one slip of the tongue for word to get out and then some hack studio turns out a third-rate copy six months before release, and we’re left with our dicks in our hands.”
“Of course.”
“So, you understand, per the terms of your contract, what happens in this office is never to be discussed outside of it.”
“You mean what’s said in this office.”
“Of course. My mistake.”
Sure, it is.
However, now is my chance. I need to test the waters and find out what his plans are for Dominic. He may have screwed me over once, but that doesn’t mean I want to see him ruined.
“Mr. Rosten—”
“Greg. ”
“Right, Greg, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Dominic McCallum.”
He peers out over the movie studios, his jaw sawing from side to side. “What about him?”
“Well, there seemed to be animosity between you at the party on Friday.”
Chuckling, he glances back over his shoulder. “Animosity? Alexandra, the boy can’t spell animosity much less go head to head with a man such as myself.” He waves a dismissive hand. “He’s insignificant.”
“But—”
“However, there seems to be quite the opposite between you two.” Rosten takes a few measured steps toward me. “Are you fucking him?”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s a simple question,” he says, his eyes darkening. “Are. You. Fucking. McCallum?”
“No!” At least not yet.
“Good, then we can proceed.” I have no idea what to say. I’m speechless. Which doesn’t matter because Rosten doesn’t seem to notice. “Silverline is producing a new film.” Returning to his desk, he pulls a bound folder from a desk drawer and drops it in my lap. “It’s already well past the casting stage and into the table reads. However, the female lead isn’t working out, so I’ve decided to recast.”
Bound Fate .
Top secret my ass. I’ve heard of these books. Violet was obsessed with them. She nearly lost her mind when rumors circulated a Hollywood studio had bought the movie rights for the entire trilogy. However, nothing was ever confirmed.
Well, until now.
“Huh.” I have no idea what else to say, so I flip to the first page, shocked at the name I see. “Holy shit, you’re replacing Greta Amherst?” The woman is a legend. Only twenty-six and already two Oscars and three Golden Globes under her belt. “Who’s replacing her?”
“You are.”
My head jerks up, the script almost tumbling off my lap. “I’m sorry?”
“Alexandra, Greta is beautiful and talented—”
“And a guaranteed box office draw.”
He flashes that brutally white smile. “True, but so are you, my sweet. You’re the topic at every water cooler. I wouldn’t be the businessman I am without capitalizing on that.”
“So, you’re putting me in a movie because of my name.”
“No. I’m putting you in the movie because you were born to play the role.” Rosten leans over my shoulder, flipping the pages of the script until he finds the one he wants. “See there? Isabella is an innocent, young girl, just coming into her sexual awakening. Sebastian is the much older CEO who breaks her inhibitions and drags her into a world of darkness and carnal sin.”
He’s right. The lines he’s referring to are explicit and from what I can tell, the role calls for pretty much full nudity on my part. “I don’t know if this is the right fit for me.”
Rosten leans back, his hands rubbing my shoulders. “Do you want a sweet, romantic comedy that paints you as the cute, little Romanov girl they remember, or do you want a gritty leading role that shows the world Alexandra Romanov is all grown up?”
Please stop.
“I have to think—”
His hands pause. “No thinking, Alexandra. Either you take the role, or I give it to Kya Perrone. Yes or no.”
Shit.
The tabloids love a good rivalry whether it’s real or not, and Kya versus Alexandra is the cat fight du jour. Even though we’ve never spoken two words to each other, the media has us at each other’s throats, fighting for roles, and trash talking behind each other’s backs.
Michaela says it may be fabricated bullshit, but the more my name stays on people’s tongues the better. I’m not so sure. Because if Kya gets this role and it explodes, where does that leave me?
I’ll tell you. As the dumb bitch who handed it to her on a silver platter.
“Fine,” I bite out through clenched teeth. “I’ll do it.”
“Excellent, I—”
“On one condition.” I say the words before I change my mind. “Leave Dominic McCallum alone.”
“Very well,” he says, returning to his ministrations. “Welcome back, Alexandra. Things might not have ended the way we planned before”—I wince as his fingers dig into my skin—“but this time will be different.”