Starlet: A Dark Retelling - Cora Kenborn Page 0,44
her head, swallowing hard. “It doesn’t matter. It’s still not enough.”
I cock my chin. “You’re still here.”
“Because he trusts me,” she snaps. “Which is more than I can say for—”
“Milly!”
We both spin around to find Dominic standing in front of us, arms crossed, nostrils flared, and a glare in his eyes I’ve never seen.
Milly shrinks under the weight of his hard stare. “Hey, boss. Any updates?”
He doesn’t answer her. Instead, he moves until he’s standing right in front of me. “How are you feeling?”
“Okay,” I answer softly, terrified he overheard us. “Why? What’s going on?”
He draws in a slow, steady breath, his pale eyes never leaving mine. “I just got off the phone with Wrenn’s secretary.” Without thinking, I jump off the desk, all but propelling myself into his chest. Dominic catches my stumble, his grip tight on my shoulders. “He’s on his way.”
My heart does a backflip into my throat, and I lock eyes with him, that familiar electrical current sizzling in the small space between us. “Does that mean…?”
He smiles with the leer of a poisonous snake about to strike. “Yes, with the DNA results. And unless something unexpected happened, a check for a million bucks.”
Pandemonium.
That’s the only word that comes close to describing the last forty-eight hours. Even then, it doesn’t come close to painting a picture of the chaos my life has become.
Or Alexandra’s life. Which is now my life.
I lean against the glass and close my eyes. God, my head hurts.
“Rook, get away from the window,” Dominic growls, a cell phone attached to each ear.
Flinching, I step away, letting the curtain fall, much to the irritation of the disgruntled press on our front lawn. After Wrenn arrived at BTN two days ago with the positive DNA test and a cashier’s check for a million dollars, our lives exploded. Not only was my claim validated, Arroyo, Tate, and Wrenn issued a statement on behalf of the Romanov estate confirming the results.
I’m officially Alexandra Romanov. A billionaire heiress with more money than God.
Wandering across the living room, I lean against the back of the couch watching as Dominic carries on two conversations at once. We have matching dark circles under our eyes, but where I roam around in a daze, he’s operating in hyper-speed, thriving on the anarchy.
“Yes, I’ve got it, Wrenn. She’ll be there to sign the papers. Ten o’clock. Of course, A.M., I’m not fucking stupid.” Glancing at me, he rolls his eyes. “Gotta go. Time’s money.” Disconnecting the call, he pockets that phone, turning his attention toward the other before hitting the unmute button. “Michaela, talk to me, baby.”
My fingers dig into the couch leather.
Who the hell is Michaela?
Dominic’s eyebrows shoot up. “Well, we didn’t expect that to happen so quickly, but yes, of course. Tomorrow? I suppose—” He abruptly cuts off, that stone look rolling across his face again. “Is that really necessary? Considering all the change she’s faced, I really don’t think—” He breaks off again, his jaw clenching so hard, I’m afraid it might snap. “Fine,” he growls. “Take care of it.” Disconnecting the call, he tosses the phone onto the couch.
I clear my throat. “Do I want to know?”
“Good news,” he announces. “You’re moving.”
Obviously, I heard him wrong. “I’m what?”
“The estate has already transferred the Bel Air mansion under your name. You’re going home, Alexandra Romanov.”
This is a joke. It has to be a joke.
“To a crime scene?”
“Look at it as owning a slice of history.”
I fly off the couch, pacing in front of him like a wild animal. “Then you move there. Enjoy your thirty-eight thousand square feet of blood-soaked bullshit.”
He grabs my arm, swinging me around to face him. “Well, you can’t live here. The world is watching. Shacking up with the guy who found you doesn’t exactly feed the fairy tale, now does it?”
“I have money now.” I try to jerk away, but he pulls me even closer. “Why can’t I buy my own place?”
“Because that’s not what they want. Alexandra Romanov has been gone from the public eye for fifteen years along with the keys to California’s version of Camelot. The people are hard up for a happy ending, and I’m giving it to them if it kills us. So, you’ll move into that goddamn house, and you’ll do it with a smile on your face.”
I want to yell. I want to scream. I want to punch him in the face.
But I don’t. What do I do?
I say the most juvenile thing possible. “Who’s Michaela?”