Starlet: A Dark Retelling - Cora Kenborn Page 0,50

to hand it to you, McCallum, I expected you to do a lot of crazy shit to save your own ass, but faking an heiress? That was brilliant.”

“I didn’t pull anything, Rosten. Alexandra’s the real deal. The estate confirmed it. Besides, you’re hardly one to talk. Not after the shit you pulled at Moss Valley.”

“I was simply downsizing.”

I slam my foot on the gas, blowing through a red light. “This is between you and me, asshole, not my mother.” Damn it, I need to pull it together. “Fate smiled down on me for once,” I say, forcing an even tone. “I was at the right place at the right time.”

Fate always finds a way.

“Speaking of your mother, meet me at my office in an hour,” he says, dragging me out of the muddled memory. “We have business to discuss.”

I laugh. “We have nothing to discuss. I have the money to pay your bullshit settlement and get my lawyers off my back now. Our business is finished.”

There’s dead silence.

“Is that right? Why don’t you check the email I just sent you and then see how finished we are?” A sadistic laugh echoes through the line. “See you in an hour, McCallum.”

The line goes dead. Grabbing my phone from the passenger’s seat, I scroll through my email and click the one from an unrecognizable address. There’s no text—only an attachment.

Once it downloads, my blood pressure hits stroke level.

“Motherfucker.”

It was taken two weeks ago outside my house. A clear shot of Angel splayed out on the lounge chair with my fingers buried inside her.

Chapter Twenty-One

Dominic

Gaining access into Silverline Studios requires a photo ID, birth certificate, passport, fingerprint, background check, blood sample, and full body cavity search.

And that’s just at the front security booth checkpoint.

After I’m granted access, I drive up to the main studio building. Slamming the car door, I stand there stewing in my own anger, fueled by the bright green lawn surrounding me like a grassy moat. It’s immaculate, flashy, and glaringly out of place. Almost as if someone dug up a tropical island and air dropped it over LA’s scorched brown earth.

Typical excess, just like Rosten himself.

And since I’m in no mood for horticultural dick swinging, I pick up the pace, grinding my teeth as I pass through the metal detector and enter the fancy glass enclosed reception area.

“Greg Rosten is expecting me,” I say to the receptionist. There’s no need for pleasantries. I’m not a pleasant guy. Plus, she’s on his payroll, which automatically puts her on my shit list.

“Name?”

She knows damn well who I am, but I’ll give her two points for attitude. At least this one has some fire in her, unlike the mannequins wandering around here fighting over who’s next in line to shove their tongue up Rosten’s asshole.

“Are we really going to play this game? I’ve got places to be and people to do. A few of whom are going to be put out if they miss getting dicked down because I was dicking with you.”

Glaring at me, she punches a few numbers into her desk phone, scowling as she speaks into the wireless headset strapped to her face. “Dominic McCallum is here to see Mr. Rosten.”

Told ya.

She gives me a barbed wire smile. “Down the hall, exit, and go to the main studio building then take the elevator to the penthouse.” She slides a square piece of plastic across the top of her desk. “Use this keycard once you’re in the elevator. It’ll provide you access to the penthouse where Susan will collect it.”

“Perfect.” I give her a wink and head toward the lion’s den.

The damn place is like a maze. Doors leading to more doors and studios that look like construction warehouses. By the time I make it to the main building and board the elevator with the magical keycard, my fists are clenched, and I’m out of patience.

“Mr. McCallum.” Rosten’s secretary stares up at me from behind her expensive desk. It’s not a question. And why should it be? Breaking into the White House would be easier than gaining access to the president of Silverline Studios.

“Sue.”

She holds out her hand. “Your keycard.”

I hand it over without arguing, and she stands without speaking, motioning me to follow her. She knocks on a door, opening it barely a crack. “He’s here.”

My mind is still swirling with images of that picture, not only with fear over what damage it could do, but with rage over knowing Rosten saw Angel like that. Half-naked and vulnerable. That