was trying to place me. I scrambled to grab several of the little pastries before he had his “ah-ha” moment, but I was too late.
“You’re Margot Higgins, right?”
I nodded. My name used to be Jane Doe. For reasons, I had it legally changed while I was still in college.
“You’re Asher Steadman’s girlfriend.” He grinned, apparently pleased with himself.
Only someone who wanted to be in the business would pay close enough attention to know that. Yes, I’d been photographed with Asher a few times, but it wasn’t like paparazzi hounded us. We weren’t actors or singers or models … so we weren’t all that exciting. The only reason the public cared even a little was because Asher was Hollywood royalty.
I gave the waiter a tight smile and popped a pastry in my mouth. Unlike many of the actors around me, I didn’t have a love-hate relationship with carbs. There was only love between us. I loved them. They loved my ass.
The waiter dragged his gaze down my body and back up again. “You are way hotter in real life.”
I swiped a couple more puff pastries and whirled away from him with a two-fingered salute. It was that or throw food at him, and that was just a waste of good catering.
After art college, I’d done something I thought I’d never do and asked my ex-foster dad, Nick, to help me get a job in a studio. He found me a position working as an art department runner. After a year of keeping everyone on set caffeinated, I got promoted to an assistant, which meant I got to use my art skills. Making my voice heard in the sea of chatter that was film wasn’t easy for me, but I was determined to be noticed. I had to be noticed so I could find the “in” I needed in Hollywood.
I’d worked on a few big movies, including one of Patel’s previous films, but lowly assistants weren’t on people’s radars. However, art director Marsha Kowalski was my boss on an Indiana Jones-style flick, and she noticed me. I worked my ass off. I offered my talents as a scenic artist, I painted, I constructed, I kept people more organized on that movie than Marsha herself. Marsha hired me on her next movie as her assistant, which was several steps up the ladder in one promotion.
That movie was a Foster Steadman film.
My “in.”
From there I met Asher and my career moved at warp speed.
Now I was an art director. At only twenty-six years old. When Patel asked for me specifically for this musical, I couldn’t believe it. He asked for me. People were asking for me now.
Which brought me to the party at Patel’s swanky house in the hills.
Remembering Patel’s mention of a home library, I moved away from the crowd, avoiding eye contact so I didn’t get drawn into conversation. Instead, I skirted the edges of the sitting room and disappeared into the hallway. I found the room in question toward the back of the first floor.
The door was open, but there was no one else inside. It was much darker than the other rooms in the home because there was only one window and a blind had been drawn over it. A comfy sectional, a few armchairs, side tables, and a coffee table were situated stylishly throughout the large room. White-painted bookcases wrapped around every inch of wall space. I envied Patel this room.
I felt relieved to be alone, surrounded by books, the music a dull thud in the background. My lungs opened and I breathed freely as I stepped into the room. It smelled like furniture polish, which was a welcome change to the colognes and perfumes out at the party fighting for supremacy over one another.
I relaxed as I stopped at the first row and began to catalogue Patel’s collection in my head.
After a while of perusing the shelves, my attention snagged on a copy of Brent 29.
I pulled out the worn paperback and flicked through the pages. Patel had underlined sentences in ink. The horror! I shook my head at the defacement but smirked. He’d underlined all the lines I’d highlighted in my e-reader edition.
The book was a runaway bestseller last year by a mysterious author called Griffin Stone. He didn’t share his photo, no one really knew who he was, but it didn’t seem to matter because the guy had sold over two million copies of his book. It was about a man, Charlie Brent, who was wrongfully