Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72543 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72543 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
“That’s not an answer,” she replies. “And I can see the doe in the headlights look on your face. I know he didn’t get you the show. Even if Damion helped put you on the studio’s radar, every studio exec could shove someone at us, and fail. You didn’t fail. And a whole lot of people, including me, fell in love with your screenings and knew you wouldn’t. The ratings are massive. But if you piss him off—”
I wave that idea off. “That’s not going to happen.”
“Says everyone who dates someone and thinks it can never go south.”
“He was literally the first boy I ever kissed, and that was when we were seven years old. We grew up together. He knows me better than anyone in this world and I know him just as well. So no, he won’t lash out at me, no matter what. And I won’t lash out at him. We’re friends, the kind that are few and far between. If we stop seeing each other, we will still be there for each other.”
Her hands settle on her hips. “You grew up next door to him?”
“Yes. Yes, I did. I’m not endangering the show or anyone’s job.”
She grabs a chair and pulls it close, climbing in, and then studying me. “This is all over the press. We have to address it on the show.”
My hands are up instantly. “No,” I say firmly. “We will not. Damion’s a private person and I will not go there.”
“This is a reality show, and we can’t ignore your reality when it’s all over the press,” she argues.
“Stop saying it’s all over the press.” I hold up a finger. “It’s one photo.”
“There will be more.”
“So let people watch the show and hope we address it,” I counter, “but we aren’t going to talk about it. I won’t. I’ll walk off the show before that happens.”
“Because he doesn’t want you to talk about him? Have you asked him?”
“No. I have not. I know Damion—”
“Ask him. He knows what you do for a living. You need to ask, not assume. And you have a contractual obligation to deal with your personal life on camera. I’ll give you time to talk to Damion, but the studio has pressured me to get more personal with you. We can start with your parents, if you prefer, and whatever squabbles there are between you–and don’t tell me there are none. I saw you fighting with your father the other day.”
“I’m not—”
“You are. You have to give me something. If you prefer, we can have you join a dating site. Maybe Damion would prefer that to himself being exposed?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. She eyes her watch and taps it. “We’re late.” She motions to Cheryl. “Why aren’t you finishing her hair?” She snaps her fingers. “Get her into wardrobe.” She stands up and walks toward the door, and I stare after her as she disappears into the hallway.
Why would she push this hard for such a thing when Damion’s her boss? Unless his spot on the board doesn’t actually give him that power? I reject that idea the minute it pops in my head. No. That’s wrong. Damion has the power, which means nothing about what just happened adds up. There’s something off, something I’m not understanding.
Cheryl’s gentle hand settles on my shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yes.” I rotate around to face her. “I’m fine. Thank you.”
“Don’t let her get to you,” she whispers. “And don’t let her ruin a good thing between you and Damion.”
I think we’re pretty good at that ourselves, I think, but all I say is, “Thank you. I won’t.”
She smiles her approval. “Let’s get you ready for the camera.”
I nod and rotate to the mirror, and once Cheryl is fiddling with my hair again, I glance at the card in my hand, but I don’t open it. At that point, I decisively slide it into my front jeans pocket. This place suddenly feels like a living, breathing creature that is as dangerous as it is intrusive. I’d much prefer to read the note later, when I’m alone, when it’s just about me and Damion, not ratings.
Chapter nineteen
Damion
I step off the elevator on the twenty-fifth floor of the West Building, and my gaze locks on the crown on the wall in the center of the West name. The arrogant prick that is my father really sees himself as a king, and therefore the ruling class, and therefore what he wishes to take, he will take.
In his mind, it’s his right.
Just as it’s my right as the younger generation to take his crown and send him into retirement.
I grit my teeth and cut right toward the lobby, pushing past the glass doors and into the reception area. A grand, bult-in desk with some sort of fucked-up wave-like design sits center stage. Debbie, my father’s receptionist of five years, sits behind that ridiculous designer desk, her red hair pinned in an extreme bun.