Starlet: A Dark Retelling - Cora Kenborn Page 0,83
Milly, but I can’t exactly interrupt with a full confession now.
“That’s why you started BTN.” I tug the sheet over my chest as I kneel behind him. “To make men like that director pay. Men like Paulo Bellini. It all makes sense now.”
It makes sense, and a year’s worth of anger dissipates into thin air.
Dominic sighs and presses his thumb to his temple. “The point of telling you is to explain why all of this”—he waves his other hand around the bedroom—“whole damn thing happened.” Bracing both hands on the mattress, he turns around and rakes his eyes across my face. “A few days before we met, I was at Moss Valley Wellness Hospital visiting my mother. Well, technically I was visiting the director of the hospital. A man on Greg Rosten’s payroll.”
“What does Rosten have to do with this?”
“I went after him, and he sued me. Moss Valley isn’t cheap, and I was already behind on payments, so Rosten made sure to speed the process along. They gave me four weeks and then threatened to dismiss her.”
“But why would Rosten want to…” The rest of the words get lost as the picture becomes clear. “Oh God,” I gasp. “It was him, wasn’t it? Rosten was the director who assaulted your mother. That’s why you went after him.”
I’m going to be sick.
Dominic gives me a sad smile. “Isn’t it ironic that I never knew his name until six months ago? Dr. Everly, Moss Valley’s director, likes his experimental drugs, one of which, it seems, works as quite the truth serum.”
In a rush of confusion and truth, the shell I’ve hidden under the past week shatters. Shame and fear combine with a very unlikely source of solidarity. So, I make my decision right then and there.
“I want to meet her.”
As soon as we step off the elevator at Moss Valley, Dominic grabs my arm, glancing around like he expects someone to pop out from around the corner. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
No, but I have to.
“I’m sure.” I smile, hoping it’s more convincing than it feels.
“Right. It’ll be fine.” He nods as we reach her room, knocking as a formality as he pushes the door open. “Mom?”
“Who’s there?” I hear a suspicious voice yell from inside the room. “Are you part of the coven?”
The what?
Dominic just sighs, opening the door wider and stepping deeper into the darkened room. I follow him, making sure to hover near the threshold. “No, Mom. I told you last time. The coven can’t get into your room. Not after the, uh…” He rubs his forehead, and squints at the ceiling. “The sageing,” he says, finally.
“Do I look like a moron to you, son? They’re witches, not demons.” A frail hand shoos him away as a surprisingly young face peers around the corner. “And who is this?” Dark blue eyes narrow. “Are you a witch?”
Dominic closes his eyes and tips his head back, a pink tinge dusting above the heavy stubble on his cheeks.
He’s blushing.
Dominic McCallum is blushing.
Suddenly, I don’t see the ruthless man. I see the sad little boy. The one who supported himself and his mother on the dangerous streets of West Hollywood. The one who grew up way too fast, jaded and angry, a lifetime of responsibility on his shoulders.
And I want to take care of both versions.
“Nah.” I shrug. “Never was one for covens. I like to do my own thing. I have been called a bitch, though. Too close, or can I still come in?”
She stares at me a few moments before her lips split into a wide grin. Turning toward Dominic, she hitches her thumb at me. “I like her.”
“Thank you,” he mouths, and I just smile. Clearing his throat, he motions me to come in. “Mom, this is Ang—” Quickly catching himself, he starts again. “Alexandra Romanov. Alexandra, meet my mother, Brenda McCallum.”
Brenda stares at me from her bed. I see where Dominic gets his looks. His mother has the same nose, same full lips, and same thick, dark hair. The only difference is her eyes. They’re a deep, ocean blue, not the piercing pale blue that could stop a heart.
“Alexandra,” she says, looking me up and down. I’ve spent the last three months under the relentless eye of the entire world, yet nothing feels as invasive as Brenda McCallum’s stare. I breathe a sigh of relief when she shifts it to her son. “Alexandra and Dominic. Dominic and Alexandra.”