Resonance of Stars (Greenstone Security #5) - Anne Malcom Page 0,1

wise—two olives, and a treat for dinner. Maybe some soft cheeses. Or I’d go wild and have prosciutto as well. No bread. I hadn’t eaten bread in years.

I’d just wrapped on this movie. I’d worked fourteen-hour days, barely slept, had pretended to like all the assholes on set, and I’d be jumping straight into my next project at six tomorrow morning. I deserved one treat.

Just one, though, because Cannes was in two days and my dress was custom. If I even drank too much water, it wouldn’t fit right, and unflattering lighting and devious photographers would find an uncomplimentary photo to splash over the tabloids. I shouldn’t care about that, being a modern woman and a feminist. But having the entire world debate over whether you were pregnant or had just gotten “chubby” over a picture taken at a wrong angle would do some damage.

I could’ve done some serious interior work on my trauma, on my demons, found ways to be healthier in the way I viewed myself. Could’ve figured out a way to get my validation from inside me, not from what the industry wanted me to be. What the world wanted me to be.

But in the end, it was easier to starve myself.

My mind was in a thousand different places, which was why I didn’t notice the reporter go from mousy to feline.

“What do you say to the rumors that you engaged in a relationship with your co-star, Jeffery Anderson, and that you are responsible for his divorce?” She asked it in the same tone as before, but it hit its mark, maybe even went a little deeper than normal, because she’d seemed so unassuming.

She had timed this well, since my publicist, Andre, who would normally step in right now, had just left on a call. He wasn’t one to normally do such a thing, since his job centered around diving into interviews when questions such as this were asked and be the rabid dog I loved him for. He had obviously gotten the same mousy vibe from the reporter, which was saying something since he had a razor-sharp eye for such things.

I gritted my teeth.

Jesus Christ.

I had engaged in a relationship with that asshole. Big mistake. Good thing the relationship consisted of groping, bad kissing, and sex that lasted less than a minute. All those men that housewives had as their ‘Hall Pass’—with their eight-pack, perfect hair and giant biceps—they usually had small dicks and no manners. Sexually or otherwise.

I did not break up his marriage. It was already broken up. For years. The best-kept secret in Hollywood. His wife, Angela Steele, was a well-known TV actress that hadn’t been able to break into film. They’d gotten together as a publicity stunt, married for the same reason. There was definitely no love between them at the beginning of the relationship, but whatever like or tolerance they had for one another was long gone, especially since Angela’s career had skyrocketed while Jeffery’s only got a minor bump. I knew for a fact he only got the lead role in this movie because he’d threatened he’d do a tell-all about his relationship with Angela if she didn’t pull strings to get him the job.

They fucking hated each other and only got together for photo shoots, events, or social media shots. They lived on separate coasts and whenever Angela was in town, she was sleeping at a well-known rapper’s house. They’d been together for almost as long as she’d been married.

Jeffery fucked everything that moved and that was a poorly kept secret. I’d been aware of what a whore he was, but I just hadn’t cared. You wouldn’t find an honorable man in the business, and if you did they were either taken, gay, or rightly thought I was a total bitch.

There was one man I’d been trying to get out of my bed the night I’d decided to sleep with Jeffery. We’d been on location in the middle of nowhere in Scotland, I’d had one too many whiskies and decided to swap out my vibrator for a real man.

Not that he was one.

But that didn’t matter. The truth didn’t matter. What mattered was that me being a home-wrecking slut would sell a lot more magazines. Even though newspapers were dying a slow death, tabloids were thriving.

Oh what a world.

“You know better than I do that female and male leads in most movies with a romantic element have to face these predictable rumors,” I said, still softly, but there was