Starlet: A Dark Retelling - Cora Kenborn Page 0,37

inside, Dominic slams the glass door and closes the vertical blinds, the scowl sinking deeper into his chiseled features.

“I forgot how relentless those assholes can be.”

For the first time since putting this whole ruse in motion, he looks exhausted. There are dark circles under his eyes and days-worth of stubble surround the lines around his mouth. And it’s not just the alcohol; it’s as if he hasn’t rested in months.

“Are you okay?”

He nods, barely saying two words to me as he shows me to the guest room. I risk a quick glance up at him, noticing some of the earlier tension has faded from his face. I shouldn’t say anything. I promised myself I wouldn’t. But this is eating away at me.

“Dominic, what happened out there—”

“Can’t happen again.”

I blink. “What?”

He leans against the door frame, folding his arms across his chest, a distant look in his eyes. “Until that million-dollar check is cashed and cleared, we can’t give anyone a reason to question you. Besides, this is a temporary business arrangement, nothing more.”

There.

Right there is the man I built Dominic McCallum up to be in my head. The asshole behind the computer. The monster wielding a pen in one hand and a sword in the other, but at the end of the day, they’re both the same.

“Right,” I say flatly. “Nothing more.”

He nods, his dark hair falling over his forehead. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life, Alexandra Romanov.”

My stomach roils at the way that sounds.

Dominic slips away without another word, which is just as well. My mind is already preoccupied with what tomorrow will bring.

More paparazzi. More questions. More lies.

By the time I finally drift off to sleep, it’s anything but restful.

Pennies.

I smell pennies.

Lowering my arm, I blink, staring at the floor and adjusting my blurry eyes to the darkness. I’m not alone. A pair of dark boots shuffle as they move toward me.

One step. Two steps. Three steps. Four steps. Five steps.

The scent of pennies grows stronger the closer the boots come. When they’re right in front of me, they stop, and I stare, knowing my choices will end in consequences.

“It’s time to go, little one. Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life.”

A strangled gasp tears from my throat as I sit straight up in bed.

Chapter Sixteen

Dominic

Slamming the car door, I squint as the sun flips a middle finger and smacks me right in the face. Mornings are not my friend, but this one is extra shitty for multiple reasons. One of them being the raging hangover that’s stabbing into my brain with a rusty icepick.

I admit, downing half a bottle of whiskey last night wasn’t the brightest idea. With a lawn-full of paparazzi foaming at the mouth, I should have kept my wits about me. I should have kept Angel inside and contained. I should have kept an eye on her while keeping my distance.

I should’ve kept my hands to myself.

I don’t know what I was thinking. Actually, that’s just it—I wasn’t thinking. At least not with the head that mattered. Thankfully, the paparazzi were still fucking around on the front lawn, or who knows what might have happened.

Not true. I know damn well what would’ve happened. I would’ve had her bent over that lounge chair screaming my name until she was hoarse.

There’s something about her that gets under my skin. For some fucked up reason, I have this insane need to protect her as I exploit her. Even though she’s determined to hate me almost as much as I’m determined not to care.

News flash. It’s not working.

Sometimes determination lands you right back where you started—swimming in a pile of shit.

And that’s where I am right now—standing outside a giant pile of shit. A half green, half white painted building I swore I’d never step foot in again, much less be summoned to like a goddamn servant.

Yet here I am.

Dominic McCallum, at your service.

I glance up, gritting my teeth as Monty’s Auto Body Repair Shop glares back at me in big, block letters. One of LA’s finest full-service garages. Guaranteed to tune your car in the front and wash your money in the back.

Grimacing, I squint again, pressing my thumb against my temple to counteract the incessant drilling in the side of my head. I should’ve expected this. The minute my phone rang last night, I knew who was calling. Not because he gave a shit, but because the bastard still thinks I owe him. Because