Starlet: A Dark Retelling

by Cora Kenborn

  “I’m flattered, Rosten, but I’m strictly clitly.”

  His hardened gaze fills with irritation. “That wasn’t an offer, you shithead.” His attention diverts as he picks up the discarded photo. I don’t like the way he’s staring at it. If I didn’t know half of Burbank worked here, I’d shove the damn thing down his throat. “But maybe I should call up America’s resurrected sweetheart,” he says, licking his lips. “A picture really does say a thousand words, and it looks like she’d scream them all.”

  All I see is red.

  “Stay away from her, or I’ll—”

  He cocks a gray eyebrow. “Or you’ll what? Publish another blast? Out me again? You can’t, McCallum. It’s part of the settlement, remember?” Letting out a dark chuckle, he tosses the photo on his desk. “You can’t say shit about me without invalidating our agreement and being held in contempt.”

  He’s right. It’s the only reason he didn’t take BTN in the settlement, as well. A compromise my lawyers negotiated despite my repeated objections. I keep my business, but the names Greg Rosten and Silverline Studios can’t be mentioned in any capacity. Otherwise, the arbitration is considered broken, and I’m fucked, broke, and incarcerated.

  Running a hand through my hair, I tug at the roots and turn toward the window. I don’t have a damn thing to hold over him.

  Then my gaze wanders back to the photo. The one snapped by a photographer who had the balls to climb a twelve-foot partition. Then my mind reverts back to the front lawn and a question mumbled by a paparazzo in a baseball hat.

  “How do you feel about McCallum’s feud with Greg Rosten?”

  Son of a bitch.

  “That paparazzo wasn’t working for a tabloid. He was on your payroll, and the minute he climbed over a fence and into my backyard, he was trespassing on private property.” I don’t wait for him to answer before I turn back around, adding with a smirk, “And that’s illegal.”

  “Prove it.”

  “I’ve got it right here!” I shout, jerking my phone out of my pocket.

  “You’ve got a picture emailed to you from a ghost account. Prove it was me. I know you’re not wearing a wire. The metal detectors would’ve taken care of that.”

  Damn it, he’s right again. “What do you want?”

  A beat passes then he leans forward, “I want her.”

  My blood turns to ice. “What?”

  “You heard me. I still think you’re full of shit, McCallum, but the Romanov estate wouldn’t bend over solely on the word of some third-rate gossip blog. If this girl really is Alexandra Romanov, she’s guaranteed box office gold.”

  “Did you accidentally roofie yourself? I know what you do to your box office golden girls. There’s no way in hell I’m letting you anywhere near her.”

  “Technically, the Romanov family is contractually obligated to Silverline. Nicholas Romanov was on the board of directors.”

  “Nicholas Romanov is dead,” I growl, my temper blazing. “Along with his wife and four children. Alexandra’s contract voided the minute they were buried.”

  “Well, there’s still the matter of this crown jewel.” Picking up the picture, he dangles it between his thumb and index finger. “I bet the tabloids would sell their mothers to buy this.” He pauses, glancing up at me through narrowed eyes. “How about you, Dominic? Would you sell your mother to buy it?”

  “Choose your next words very carefully, Rosten.”

  “How is dear Brenda doing? I hear Moss Valley is overcrowded these days.”

  I swear to fuck if I had my gun, I’d put every damn bullet in his chest, and then pistol whip him just for fun. Greg Rosten has no idea what I’m capable of or what sins I’ve committed. I may have left the life that built me, but every brick of BTN is bathed in blood and then washed in the back of a dirty garage. That kind of violence never leaves you. It’s always there, simmering just under the surface, waiting to erupt.

  And the volcano is about to blow.

  “You’re the reason she’s there.”

  “And you’re the reason she’s leaving.”

  Rushing toward him, I slam my fist on his desk. “Fuck you!”

  “No, fuck you!” he seethes, narrowing his eyes. “Haven’t you heard? I’m God in this town. I own everybody, and I own you, you little shit.” He shoves his finger in my face, and I smack it away. It doesn’t faze him. “You may have paid off your debt, but you’re still broke as shit. You can’t afford the toilet paper to wipe your ass much less decent long-term psychiatric care.” Leaning back in his oversized chair, he folds his hands behind his head and kicks his feet up on his desk. “Here’s your reality, newsboy, I can have her eighty-sixed from that piece of shit clinic and thrown out on her batshit crazy ass before you even make it to the parking lot.”

  My voice shakes with rage. “You can’t do that.”

  “You bet your ass I can. And I will, along with sending this”—he points to the photo still lying on his desk—“to every media outlet from here to Antarctica.” A wide smile spreads across his face. “Unless, you convince that pretty little thing to sign on the dotted line.”

  I’m not a good man, but that’s sending a lamb to slaughter.

  What choice do I have?

  “I want my mother reinstated to a deluxe suite at Moss Valley.” I taste every bitter lick of betrayal in each word. “A year’s stay paid up front, and I want it all in writing”

  He nods, victory peeling across his smug face. “Consider it done.”

  “I’ll need some time.”

  “You have until Friday.”

  What the hell? “That’s in three days! There’s no way. Besides, it’ll be too chaotic on Friday. Alexandra has the…” The word trails off as the pieces start clicking together, then I grit out, “party.”

  Rosten’s smile widens, the gleam in his eye turning my stomach. “Can’t wait. It’s been a long time since I’ve indulged in a Romanov party. Russian vodka is the best, you know. Should be a good time.”

  I want to grab his tongue and rip it out. Instead, I grab the picture off his desk.

  “You keep that.” He nods toward my clenched hand. “I have a hundred more where that came from. Now get out of my sight. I have work to do.”

  I don’t take orders, but I’m afraid if I’m in this man’s presence another minute, I might throw him out the window.

  Just as I get to the elevator, he calls my name. “Dominic?”

  I don’t know why I stop. Call it morbid curiosity, or maybe subconsciously, I’m looking for a reason to bloody my hands. Whatever the motivation, I look over my shoulder.

  He runs his index finger along his bottom lip and winks. “Tell that special girl to save a dance for me.”

  I don’t breathe until I’m back in my car and alone. Only then do I lose it.

  Balling up the picture, I slam my fist into the steering wheel over and over. When I run out of steam, I slump back in the seat and close my eyes. The picture is bad enough, but the worst has yet to come. I started this war, but I won’t be the only one who pays the price. I’ve led an unsuspecting, unarmed, and unaware army into battle.

  The fucked up part is, even knowing this, I’ll still march. I’ll still charge. I’ll still drive an innocent woman straight into the arms of the enemy. To the same casting couch that drove my mother off the cliff of reality. Because I have no choice.

  War isn’t pretty. It isn’t fair.

  Sometimes you have to play dirty.

  And sometimes the only way to win is to sacrifice one of your own.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Angel

  Tipping my head back, I blink at the massive crystal chandeliers hanging from the vaulted ceilings. They’ve been dimmed, which bathes most of the room in a shimmering shadow I assume is meant to provide ambiance, or an opportunity to hide behind darkness.

  Plucking a third glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, I down half of it before Michaela can chastise me again. According to cru
sty Bel Air elite protocol, it’s not socially acceptable for the hostess to drink at her own party. Good thing I subscribe to the underprivileged Chula Vista orphan handbook.

  My hand tightens around the glass as my gaze wanders around the decorated room.

  He’s still not here.

  I don’t know why I’m surprised. As he said, he got his money. I knew better than to count on Dominic McCallum for anything, but a part of me hoped tonight would be different. That he would be different.

  Slamming the rest of the champagne, I pick myself up and straighten my crown. Because I have one now, fuck him very much. Dominic scrambles my thoughts every time he’s within ten feet of my vagina, making me forget I’m the one in control. I’m the heiress. I’m the one sitting on a family fortune the size of a small continent.

  I’m Alexandra Romanov.

  “Fascinating.”

  Startled, I spin around, almost dropping my glass at the man standing in front of me. He stares at me with cold, celestial blue eyes as unnerving as they are startling. “Excuse me?”

  His fingers curls around a short glass of brown liquid. “Your event, Alexandra. It’s a fascinating affair.”

  I roll the word around in my head while assessing him. He seems familiar. I can’t place it, but I know I’ve seen him before. “That’s an odd choice of wording, Mr…” I pause, giving him a chance to fill in the blank. When he just stands there, sipping his drink, I clear my throat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  He glances up, still holding his drink to his lips. “I tend not to adhere to society’s rules, Miss Romanov. Or rules in general.”

  Forcing a plastic smile, I allow those pale eyes to swallow me whole. “So how is my event fascinating? Does something not conform to Romanov standards? Because I assure you my public relations director has gone to great lengths to ensure no expense has been spared in recreating—”

  “It’s fascinating because of you, Alexandra.” His lips peel back to reveal a smile that never quite meets his eyes. “Your presence is fascinating, your beauty is fascinating, that dress is fascinating.” His eyes scan my gown, and as if pulled by force, mine follow.

  Michaela insisted I make a statement that Alexandra Romanov is all grown up. Sleek and straight, the gown is a blue and gold showstopper with a daring slit on the side and a train flowing so far behind me, I need a twelve foot radius.

  “But mostly, Miss Romanov,” he continues, “your existence is fascinating.”

  I lift my chin, stunned by his bold statement. “If this is about my memory, the estate has already put out a statement about that—”

  “I have no interest in your memory. I’m more intrigued by your allure.”

  “My allure?”

  “Yes, my dear. Six people were brutally murdered on the very ground beneath our feet, yet here you stand, unharmed.” He casually motions toward the floor, his voice eerily calm. “Thriving, dare I say. Why is that? Why would a team of vicious killers spare a young girl and risk having her identify them to the police?”

  He doesn’t know we’re lying. He can’t know.

  “From what I’ve read, the assailant was killed, as well.”

  He takes a step forward. We’re so close we could be dancing, but somehow, I know it wouldn’t just be a dance. It would be an oath. “Then one might beg the question, how did an eight-year-old girl escape a crime scene unseen and then make it from Bel Air to Chula Vista with just the clothes on her back?”

  “I-I don’t know.” I stumble backward, my high heel catching on my train. I feel my balance shift and the world tilt. I’m going to fall, and I can’t stop it. I close my eyes and wait, but I don’t fall. My eyelashes flutter open as I stare down at the man’s hand, wrapped firmly around my bicep as he steadies me.

  “Like I said, a fascinating event.” Releasing me, he holds up his drink. “Until we meet again, Miss Romanov.”

  As he tips his glass, the sleeve of his tuxedo jacket slides up his arm, and my eye catches something familiar. Something kept covered by expensive material and pretenses. Something that makes my throat close up and my heart slam against my chest so hard I can’t breathe.

  Half an hour and three drinks later, my nerves still haven’t settled. In fact, I’m three times as on edge and wound tighter than a mattress coil.

  “I’m overreacting,” I tell myself pacing the length of the kitchen. Dozens of wait staff dodge my repeated path, clearly annoyed, but smart enough not to say a word. Tipping back the fresh glass in my hand, I drink and pace until my lungs beg for air. “There’s no way that’s possible. Dominic is ruthless but he’s not a—”

  “Alexandra, just the person I was”—Michaela’s wine-stained lips pinch as she plucks the flute out of my hand—“looking for.”

  “Lucky me.” I sigh, my shoulders sagging.

  Placing my half-empty flute on a passing food tray, she hardens a stare at me, “Alexandra, I feel as your PR director, it’s my job to remind you how paramount this party is in restoring the Romanov name. Your parents came to this country to make that name mean something. Not only did they do that, they made it a household name.”

  “Why do I feel a ‘but’ coming?”

  She doesn’t acknowledge me, instead taking a firm hold of my elbow and leading me toward the main parlor. “But I also feel it’s also important to remind you the very people you keep rolling your eyes at can make or break your career, not to mention your reputation. The tabloids don’t have to dig very far to come up with a handful of dirt on you and Dominic McCallum.”

  Shit!

  “I don’t know what you mean.” God that sounds weak.

  “Don’t play dumb,” Michaela bites out through a practiced smile. “I’m not in the mood.”

  I scrape my palm across my forehead. “What did you need Michaela?”

  She casts a quick glance at the boisterous party. “There are a lot of producers here vying for your attention. And when I say a lot, I mean every single president of every single studio that matters. You can’t keep ignoring them, Alexandra. If you hope to have a film career, this is your chance. Don’t screw it up.”

  “You’re right. Just give me a few minutes, and then I’m on it.” She lifts a sharp eyebrow, and I groan, “I promise.”

  “Good.” Nodding, she starts to walk away, then stops, her gaze snapping back as a waiter strolls by. “And no more champagne.”

  True to my word, I play my part. I put on the perfect show, seeking out and networking with producers and studio execs from Ravengate, MillenniumWorks, hell even the assholes at Optimax who were involved in Paulo Bellini’s fiasco. By the time I finish stroking everyone’s egos I need more than a glass of champagne. I need a good shot of whiskey.

  Whiskey.

  Another reminder Dominic still hasn’t shown his face. Of course, I’ve spent the last hour under the lecherous watch of the men who all but own this industry, so he very well could have snuck in when my back was turned. Maybe he’s in one of the other rooms.

  Maintaining an artificial smile, I cross the main ballroom at a speed unwise for a woman in six-inch stilettos. I’m racing around, determined to search every inch of this godforsaken house when once again, I crash 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 e
xpect 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.”