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Who I haven’t seen in three days, by the way.
It’s just as well. After the party, Michaela put me on display like a show pony. Since Saturday morning, I’ve flown from LA to New York and back again, doing interviews, press junkets, daytime talk shows, late night talk shows, really late night talk shows—hell, at this point, I have no idea what I’ve said and what I haven’t. It’s all one big blur.
One thing’s for sure—America loves me. Even when a few arrogant TV hosts tried to boost ratings by stirring up the Angel Smith/Jade Saxton controversy, the public stood by me. Some going so far as to picket outside Rockefeller Plaza.
Of course, Michaela prepped me with pre-canned answers. Our story is that I saw the picture of the little girl Dominic carried around and (dramatic gasp) demanded to know why he had a picture of me.
Brilliant, right?
We thought so.
And everyone bought it. So much that nobody cared about Jade Saxton’s history with Dominic McCallum or Angel Smith’s supposedly diabolical plan to get even.
Nope. In seventy-two hours, Alexandra Romanov became a national treasure.
Sweet. Infectious. And absolutely full of shit.
Which is exactly how I feel this early on Monday morning. Full of shit and a host of other disgusting things as I leave the glass enclosed reception area of Silverline Studios and head toward the main executive building. The plastic keycard bites into my hand as I clench my fist, hesitating before opening the door.
“This is what you wanted,” I whisper. “So just suck it up and do it.”
Taking a deep breath, I open yet another glass door and step inside the building, making my way over to the elevator. As I wait for it to arrive, I can’t help but replay Dominic’s words from the party, moments before we reentered the ballroom.
“Everything in Hollywood is a smokescreen, rook. It’s not enough to just play the game. You have to own the board.”
“Own it. Right.” The elevator dings, and I step inside, inserting the keycard and counting the floors as they tick away toward the penthouse.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Seven. Eight…
Ding.
My stomach somersaults as the doors open, and I pull out the keycard, dropping it in my purse as I make my way toward the hard-faced secretary with the resting bitch face.
“Hi, I’m—”
“Alexandra Romanov,” she says, standing quickly. “Mr. Rosten is expecting you. Please come with me.”
I follow her to another door where she knocks, opening it a few inches before announcing, “Miss Romanov is here.” I don’t hear his reply, just a low murmur as she nods her head and swings the door open. “Go right in.” Just as I start to move past her, she stops me, her palm slicing out just under my chin. “I’ll need—”
“For fuck’s sake, Susan, let her in!”
Susan, or whatever her name is, slowly lowers her arm, her tight smile widening into something resembling the Cheshire Cat—if it had a baseball bat shoved up its ass. “It’s an honor to make your acquaintance, Miss Romanov. Silverline is lucky to have you.”
“Alexandra, please have a seat.” My attention is momentarily diverted as my gaze shifts to Greg Rosten, perched behind his desk like the lord of the manor. It sets me on edge, and when I hear the door close behind me, my nerves start to snap.
Own the board.
Forcing a smile, I make my way across the office and sink into the oversized chair on the other side of his desk. “I apologize for the delay. My schedule has been a bit hectic lately.”
“I saw the interviews. You handled yourself well, Alexandra. Just like a true Romanov. Your mother would be proud.”
I tilt my head. “Just my mother?”
“She was always the media darling,” he answers with a wink. “A people pleaser, if you will. Your father was more traditional. Set in his ways. Never liked the give and take of the business side of this industry.”
“Yes, well, be that as it may, I’m my own woman, Mr. Rosten. I may bear the Romanov name, but I’m not here to bask in my mother’s shadow. I plan to make my own mark.”
“Yes, you definitely are a woman.” His eyes slowly scan down my tailored jacket and past my sheer blouse and skirt to my legs.
