Chapter 2 #2
His arms come around me slowly, carefully, like I might break. Or like he might.
“You’re drunk.”
“Doesn’t make it less true.”
He pulls me closer, and for a moment I let myself imagine this is real. That we’re just two people who care about each other, not star and assistant, not employer and employee. Just Phoenix and Mason, finding comfort in each other while the world burns around us.
His breath ghosts across my ear, and I shiver.
“Phoenix,” he whispers.
My heart stops. This is it. The moment everything changes. The moment we stop pretending there’s nothing between us. The moment—
“Your mother’s at the bar.”
The words hit like cold water. I jerk back, nearly falling off the booth in my haste to put distance between us.
“What?”
Mason nods toward the bar, expression carefully neutral. “Three o’clock. Fur coat.”
I follow his gaze and sure enough, there’s Victoria Riviera holding a cocktail that I’ll probably be billed for, draped in what looks like an entire endangered species despite the seventy-degree weather outside.
Her platinum hair catches the light like a beacon, and even from here I can see the calculating way she surveys the room, cataloguing useful connections and potential opportunities.
She spots me before I can duck behind Mason.
“Phoenix, darling!”
The VIP bouncer doesn’t get the chance to say a word before she has already pushed past him. She descends on our booth in a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and the stench of whatever alpha she had in her suite last night, air-kissing my cheeks with practiced precision.
“You were magnificent tonight,” she gushes, sliding into the booth uninvited. “Absolutely luminous.”
“You liked the movie?” I ask, surprised.
She hesitates, giving me a practiced smile. “I think one of those red carpet photos has a good chance of making People’s best dressed list.”
I belatedly realize that she is talking about the red carpet. “You skipped the premiere.”
It’s not a question. I know my mother’s patterns better than my own. Show up for the photos, skip the actual work, reappear for the party. Rinse and repeat for over a decade.
“I had to take a call,” she says smoothly. “You know how it is. Business never stops.”
What business? I want to ask. She hasn’t actually done any managing in years, unless you count spending my money and making deals behind my back as work.
Financially, it makes no sense that I’ve spent my entire career letting her skim fifteen percent off the top while only showing up for me when it’s convenient.
But the thought of firing my own mother is…
uncomfortable. I can already hear her voice in my ear, listing all the sacrifices she made to get us out of my grandmother’s basement in her rural nothing hometown and into this glamorous life.
“The reviews are starting to come in. Every single one mentions how much you make a perfect Bond girl,” she continues. “The material might have been challenging, but you obviously rose above it.”
“Challenging. Right.”
Mason shifts beside me, subtle tension in his shoulders. He and Victoria have what could generously be called a strained relationship. She sees him as an obstacle to her influence. He sees her as a parasite. They’re both right.
“I won’t be able to make Montreal,” she announces, flagging down a waitress with the imperious wave of someone who’s never been ignored. “Darling, Grey Goose martini, extra dirty, three olives.”
As much as I won’t miss her hovering, she has an actual job to do.
“You’re my manager,” I remind her through gritted teeth. “I need you there.”
“Yes, well, something’s come up. A potential opportunity I need to pursue here.
The studio is sending out a publicist. You’ll have plenty of support.
” She eyes a producer across the room like a hawk spotting a mouse.
“But I’ll absolutely be there for the European leg. Paris is divine this time of year.”
Of course. She’ll skip the sleet and traffic, but show up for the European glamour. Classic Victoria.
“Besides,” she adds, patting my hand with her cold fingers, “you have Mason. He’s practically your shadow these days.”
There’s something in her tone I don’t like. An implication. A suggestion. Like she knows something she shouldn’t.
“Mason’s my assistant.”
“Of course he is, darling.” Her smile could cut glass. “Though people are starting to talk. An omega actress spending so much time with her omega assistant. It looks… particular.”
“Let them talk.”
“Oh, I intend to. Buzz is buzz, after all.” She stands, martini already forgotten. “I should go say hello to Richard. His new project sounds fascinating.”
She’s gone before I can respond, swallowed by the crowd of sycophants and social climbers. The abandoned martini sits on our table like an accusation.
“I fucking hate her sometimes,” I mutter.
“She’s your mother.”
“Doesn’t make her less awful.”
Mason slides the water glass toward me. “Drink.”
“I’d rather have tequila.”
“I’m sure you would.”
But I drink the water anyway, because Mason asked me to, and I’ve never been good at denying him anything. The ice helps clear some of the fog from my brain, but not enough to make this night bearable.
“We can leave,” Mason offers. “Whenever you want.”
“And go where? Back to the hotel so I can stare at the ceiling and watch network television?” I reach for the tequila again. “At least here I’m lonely with an audience.”
“Phoenix—”
“It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”
Nothing’s fine. My career’s imploding, my mother’s scheming, I’m trapped in a fake relationship with an alpha who sees me as a business opportunity, and I’m probably in love with my assistant who deserves so much better than the mess I’ve become.
But sure. Fine.
I pour another shot, raise it in a mock toast to the empty air.
“Here’s to being lonely in a crowd.”
The tequila burns, but not much more than any of the rest of it.