Starlet: A Dark Retelling - Cora Kenborn Page 0,32

in. I feel his hand brace against my lower back. Steadying me. Reassuring me.

“Remember,” he whispers in my ear. “Less is more.”

“You’re writing your own lines in this movie.”

As microphones shove in my face and cameras flash, I lift my chin. “May we help you?”

The faces dotting the front line blank, momentarily stunned by my calm question. However, a buzz quickly hums through the crowd as one particularly pushy man in a dirty T-shirt and a baseball cap steps forward, shoving his microphone past me and straight into Dominic’s face. “Dominic McCallum, I presume?”

Dominic shrugs. “You presume a lot.”

Paparazzi are a unique breed. During my brief fifteen minutes of fame, I learned they’re journalistic vampires hovering in the shadows just waiting to sink their fangs into whomever they can bleed dry for a buck. Unfortunately, silence only feeds their blood lust.

Which is obvious when the baseball hat guy rolls his eyes and tosses out a succession of rapid-fire questions. “What’s with the news blast? Did you really find Alexandra Romanov or is this just some publicity stunt? Is this her? Why come forward now?”

I stiffen, familiar anxiety seeping through the cracks in my façade. Dominic, on the other hand, remains unbothered. “Why don’t you ask her yourself?”

Dozens of paparazzi fall silent as Dominic settles that lethal gaze on me. An irrational part of me wants to dive back inside the car, lock the doors, and bury my head in my hands until they all go away. But that’s ridiculous. This is what I agreed to, and fear or no fear, there’s no turning back now.

Remember, less is more.

I clear my throat and force a timid smile. “As I’m sure you all can imagine, the last twenty-four hours have been very confusing and overwhelming. While I appreciate your interest, please understand I can’t give you any information until we’ve met with the estate.”

“The Romanov estate, you mean,” the baseball hat guy says, inching closer. “So, you are claiming to be Alexandra Romanov, the missing heiress, correct?”

My smile wavers. “Again, I can’t comment at this time. Thank you.”

Determined to have the last word, the baseball hat guy mutters something I barely hear and reaches for my arm, only to be met with a hard shove to his chest. Dominic glares at him as he steers me through a second wave of questions and flashes on our way up the cement walkway.

“How did you just happen to find her, McCallum?” Hat guy sneers as he scans my ripped shorts and worn camouflage shirt. “Because she doesn’t look like an heiress. She looks like a—”

“A what?” I snap, twisting around just as Dominic’s fingers dig into my ribcage. “Say it. I fucking dare you.”

He doesn’t answer. And why should he? I broke character. He hit a nerve, and I went off script. Instead of dangling a carrot and pulling it back, I dumped an entire vegetable garden in their laps.

There’s a low curse behind me as Dominic shoves a key in the door. “That’s enough for tonight,” he growls.

That should’ve been it, and in a normal world, it would’ve been. But this is Hollywood. Nothing here is normal, and the only way to win a war of words is to have the last one.

“Can you tell us where she’s been for fifteen years?”

Dominic stills, his jaw clenched. Seconds pass like minutes, until slowly, he glances over his shoulder. “Isn’t it obvious? Somewhere safe.” Without another word, he pushes me inside and slams the door.

Dominic’s phone rang minutes after we walked inside. While I didn’t expect him to put it on speaker mode, the few mumbled words he flung before disappearing down the hallway and slamming the door left me a little speechless.

Maybe he’s mad about the location of his home being discovered by the paparazzi. Maybe he’s pissed at the way I handled them. Or, maybe, he’s regretting this whole thing as much as I am. Whatever the reason, I’m not offended by the lack of hospitality.

I’m too busy spinning in my own wheelhouse of emotions to care.

“Isn’t it obvious? Somewhere safe.”

There’s a lingering echo entwined around those words. It’s as if they exist on two sides of an opaque door. If I squint hard enough, I can see shapes and movement on the opposite side. I can hear murmurs and voices. But I can’t distinguish anything. It’s too cloudy and muddled.

Except for those words.

I know they’re there. Only the more I listen to them repeat inside my head, the less it’s Dominic who’s