Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 53725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 269(@200wpm)___ 215(@250wpm)___ 179(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 269(@200wpm)___ 215(@250wpm)___ 179(@300wpm)
I’d known then that I had to take the job, but that’s how it had become about them, not me.
I’d screen tested a week later.
Thanks to Nelson, I’d contracted for fifty thousand an episode for eight episodes. I’d told my parents it was twenty, hoping to tame spending. I’d also reminded my mother we had to pay the debt to the West family. But I knew already that my mother was an enabler of a ten-year addiction. We’d gone through quiet spells, but gambling always won. It always showed back up.
As for the show though, the timing had been incredible, even if I wouldn’t know until I was already filming. My father was on a downward spiral, and that meant so were we. When I look back at my mother’s reaction to the show, I see the relief in her I had missed then.
But if Damion is behind me getting the show, it feels manipulative. He’d told me himself the West family has ways to find things out. Maybe he knew we were in trouble. On the other hand, I feel ungrateful to even have such a thought. This is good for me and my family.
I refocus on the script.
But not before I check my phone for a message from Damion, which is silly. He made it clear he won’t come to me. I need to contact him. I grab my phone and type him a message: I do owe you.
By the time I start filming, he hasn’t replied.
A half hour later, I’m dressed in a belted lilac sheath power dress, donated from a big designer, a perk of the job that I adore. My brown hair is glossy and sleek around my shoulders, my lips are a pale glossy pink and my makeup is perfect. I’m not a warrior princess but I am a TV princess and maybe, just maybe, I will enjoy it just a little bit today, instead of convincing myself I don’t deserve anything and everything. It’s a victim mentality I don’t enjoy in others, so why am I allowing myself to be that person?
I am woman and warrior, I decide. And if I’m going to take on Damion West, I need a little starlight in me again.
But despite all my newfound bravado, I still check my phone one last time before I step on set for Damion’s reply. He hasn’t replied.
My lunch break arrives, and he hasn’t replied.
It’s not until I finish my last shot of the day that a tingling awareness fills me and my gaze lifts just beyond the film set. I suck in a breath as I find Damion standing there.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Alana
He’s leaning on a wall, arms crossed in front of his broad chest as he watches me from across the room with those piercing blue eyes.
It’s hard to process, let alone describe if I had to, how perfectly Damion West personifies alpha, hot male in this moment. Of course, he’s dressed in one of what I suspect is many custom suits, his dark hair thick, with a slight wave he once hated and I always loved. Today’s suit is gray pinstriped with a matching gray silk tie, but it wouldn’t matter if the suit was blue, black, or some other random color. Damion wears the suit, it does not wear him. He owns the world around him.
And while I could easily argue that I’m standing here, unable to push forward, watching him watch me because he’s a sight to see, the truth is, I’m thinking about the message I sent him, I owe you, and all it implies. My heart is pitter pattering as if he were here for me. But he’s here for him, to claim his favor in order to complete his merger. This isn’t the old days. We aren’t kids in neighboring houses who can’t wait to share our new toys with each other. I’m business to him, and I all but told him I’d be his fake fiancée, complete with a public display of affection. What I didn’t consider was how that looks for me. He’s on the studio board. Do I now look like I slept my way to a TV show?
Air trickles from my lips, and Delilah, our director, says, “Great day, Alana. Get some rest.”
I tear my eyes from Damion’s, wave at Delilah, and then walk toward Damion.
He tracks every move I make, his gaze sliding over me in a blush-worthy inspection that all but declares we’re intimately involved. As I near, he pushes off the wall, towering over me by a good foot as he says, “Seemed like a great shoot.”
“Don’t look at me like you’re looking at me,” I warn.
His lips quirk. “How am I looking at you?”
“Like you want to gobble me up.”
“Because I do,” he assures me. “You look beautiful in that dress.”