Starlet: A Dark Retelling - Cora Kenborn Page 0,55
into another guest in another tuxedo.
Jesus, have I not met a quota tonight, or something?
“Shit!” I blurt out as his hand steadies my arm. Then Michaela’s warning rings in my ear about being elegant and refined, so I rush a hurried, “I mean, my apologies. I didn’t see you there.”
There’s a low chuckle as he moves his hand from my arm to my chin, holding it between his fingers. “No need for apologies, my sweet. I make it my life’s work to rescue damsels in distress.”
As if pulled by a string, my chin lifts and I meet his stare. “Greg Rosten.”
“Ah, my reputation precedes me.”
I jerk my chin away, Milly’s confession causing me to fling out hostility like a dart. “Yes, just not the one you’re proud of.”
I expect outrage, or at the very least a returned insult. Instead, he laughs as if my pain has somehow amused him. “You’re a firecracker, Alexandra. I like that. I can appreciate a woman with bite.” He leans in close, his voice dropping to barely a whisper. “It’s so much more satisfying when you bring them to heel.”
What a disgusting pig. I have an agenda, but I’m not sure it’s worth spending another minute in his presence.
I’m about to make my exit when he holds out a hand. “I believe I’m the only executive here who hasn’t had the pleasure of a dance.”
Fuck.
Channeling Michaela, I grit my teeth and take his hand. “You’ll have to forgive me, I’m a little rusty at ballroom dancing.”
And by ‘a little rusty’ I mean clueless.
“That’s not a problem,” he says. Placing my other hand on his shoulder, he slips his around my back. “Just follow my lead.”
I bite my tongue as he leads me in a classic Viennese Waltz, constantly turning with confusing change of steps that cause my feet to tangle more than once. “Enjoying yourself tonight, Mr. Rosten?”
“It’s Greg, and of course. I’ve always been partial to the Romanovs. I have fond memories of them. Silverline gave your mother her big break, and Nicholas was our most profitable leading man until he took a more directorial role.”
Swallowing, I give myself a mental pep talk.
What the hell are you waiting for? Accept the offer. Just say, yes.
Unfortunately, that’s not what comes out. “It was a pleasure, Greg, but I—”
He spins me around once more then comes to a dead stop. “I’m going to be frank with you, Alexandra. I want you to sign with Silverline.”
“I’m flattered, but I have other offers to consider.”
His grip tightens. “But we fit so well together. You know I cast you in your first role. You were only five,” he murmurs, tucking a wisp of hair behind my ear before resuming our dance. “So young and innocent, but such raw talent. You were always special.”
I stumble, missing steps in the waltz as the static from my dream blinds me, clouding my vision. The zigzag lines flash as the scratching in the back of my mind gets louder and louder. In between the zigzags, I can see slivers of faces but not enough to recognize anyone. I see lips moving, then they disappear as static turns them into dust.
But then there’s a voice. Broken words, sifting through the scratches.
“Here… sweet… good… now.”
I listen but there’s nothing until...
“Special.”
A gurgle rattles in my throat, and then they’re gone. The flashes, static, scratching, and voices all vanish as quickly as they came. Almost as if they were never there at all. I know something important just happened, but it’s like someone marked over my memory with black chalk.
“I have to go.” I can taste the bile rising up in my throat as I try to wrench out of his hold, but he only tightens his grasp.
“Alexandra, you don’t look well. Maybe I should take you somewhere to lie down.”
No. No. No.
He’s caging me. I’m flapping my wings as hard as I can, but it doesn’t matter. It’ll never matter.
“Sorry I’m late,” a familiar voice rumbles behind me. “Traffic was a bitch.”
Rosten and I both turn and relief rushes over me like warm water. I was told wishes and hope don’t exist. But if they do, they’re standing in front of me wrapped in all black and accented with a pair of piercing pale blue eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Angel
“Dominic,” I breathe, and I don’t know if it’s his name or a prayer. Maybe it’s both because he looks like an angel sent down to rescue me. Although, looking as ominous as he does with that solid black tux,