My boyfriend had to grab the phone out of my hand before I cursed at the Hollywood exec for irritating the shit out of me.
He finally speaks. “Do you have the contracts?” His chair screeches as he leans back.
I pull out the stack of papers from my handbag.
“Bring them here.” He motions to me with two fingers.
“You could have sat beside me,” I retort, standing on two chunky heels with brass buttons, military-inspired and part of the new Calloway Couture collection.
“But I didn’t,” he says easily. “Come here.”
My heels clink across the hardwood, and I make the perilous catwalk up to Scott Van Wright.
He props one ankle on his thigh, his finger to his cheek as he unabashedly peruses my body. From my slender legs, to the hem of my black pleated dress with sheer quarter-sleeves, and to the high collar that frames my stiff neck. He traces my dark-glossed lips, my rose-blushed cheeks, and bypasses right over my pissed-off eyes, spending an extra moment fixated on my chest.
I stop by his legs and throw the contracts on the table in front of him. They slide off the polished surface and land on his lap. One stapled stack even slips to the floor. I smile wide since he has to bend down awkwardly to reach them.
“Pick that up,” he tells me.
My smile fades. “It’s underneath the desk.”
He cocks his head, giving me another long once-over. “And you dropped it.”
He cannot be serious. I cross my arms, not responding to his request. He just sits there, waiting for me to comply.
This is a test.
I’m used to them. Sometimes I even dole them out myself, but this one is going to lead me nowhere good.
If I bend down, he’ll establish this strange power over me. He’ll be able to command me in the same way that Connor Cobalt can force people to do his bidding with simple words.
It’s a manipulator’s gift.
I’m not even close to possessing it. I think I wear my emotions too much to have that type of influence over other people.
“Grab it,” he says, his gaze halting on my breasts again.
I remind myself why I need Scott and why I want the swarm of cameras to document my every move. I inhale. Okay. You have to do it, Rose. Whatever it takes. I cringe and drop to my knees. In a dress. This is a job for a personal assistant, not a client.
I hear him click his pen as I scoop up the papers. I’m not wearing a low-cut top where I’ll flash him. I don’t have huge breasts to really ogle either. The most he can do is slap my ass and try to peek up my dress, the hem perilously rising on my thighs.
When I stand back up and smack the papers to the table, his lips curve upward.
Scott Van Wright (asshole) 1 – Rose Calloway (pathetic) 0.
I sit in the nearest chair while Scott stuffs the contracts in his briefcase.
My boyfriend urged me to bring his lawyer to the meeting, but I didn’t want Scott to think that I couldn’t handle the situation myself. I won’t have a lawyer while the cameras follow me, and I’d rather take command now.
Not that I’m doing a terrific job.
If I ordered Scott to do anything, he’d laugh at me. But I attended a few law courses before I graduated from Princeton. I know my rights.
“Just so we have this clear, you work for me,” I remind him. “I hired you to produce the show.”
“That’s cute. But after you signed that contract, you’ve officially become my employee. You’re the equivalent of an actress, Rose.”
No. “I can fire you. You can’t fire me. That doesn’t make me your employee, Scott. That makes me your boss.”
I expect him to withdraw from this losing battle, but he shakes his head like I’m wrong. I know I’m right… Right? “My production company has sole ownership over anything the Calloway sisters film on network television. If you fire me, you need just cause and you can’t jump to another producer. I’m your only shot at having a reality show, Rose.”
I remember that clause, but I never thought it would be an issue. I figured I’d be around Scott maybe twice during the whole filming process. But these were his first words when he walked into the conference room: “We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other.” Lovely.
My eyes grow hot. I have to concede on this one. He won. Somehow. I hate it.
“So, now that we have that clear,” he says, sitting up and edging closer to me. His knees almost knock into mine. I go utterly rigid. “There are a few details we need to go over in case you misread them in the contract.”
“I don’t misread things.”
“Well evidently you weren’t using a portion of your brain or else you would have realized that you work for me now. And we wouldn’t have wasted…” He checks his watch. “…five minutes of my time.” He flashes me a sardonic smile like I’m a little girl.
“I’m not an idiot,” I retort. “I graduated at the top of my class with highest honors—”
“I don’t care about your fucking degree,” he says sharply. “You’re in the real world now, Rose Calloway. No university is going to teach you how to navigate this industry.”
Doubt surfaces. I don’t know much about reality television, but I’ve been immersed in the media long enough to know it can help someone as much as it can destroy them.
And I need that help.
I understand exactly why the network would take an interest in the daughters of Fizzle. My father’s brand has beat Pepsi for the past two years in sales, and he’s working to make Fizzle the soda of choice among southern states. We should be as anonymous as the face behind Coca-Cola, but ever since my family was thrust into the public eye, we’ve been under intense scrutiny, and it’s all because of my younger sister’s scandal.
My brand should have exploded from all the media and press, but the name Calloway Couture has been linked with Lily’s dirty secrets. And what once was a thriving fashion line in H&M has been destitute in boxes and boxes, piled in my New York office.
I need good exposure, the kind that will have women desiring a one-of-a-kind coat, a unique pair of a boots, an affordable but chic handbag. And Scott Van Wright is offering me a primetime reality show that will tempt viewers to purchase my pieces.
So that’s why I’m agreeing to this.
I want to save my dream.
Scott says, “There will be cameras in your living room and kitchen at all times, even after the three-person crew leaves. You’ll only have privacy in your bedrooms and bathrooms.”
“I remember this.”
“Good.” Scott clicks his pen. “Then maybe you’ll remember that each week, I expect to have interviews with the cast, which includes you, your three sisters—”
“Not three,” I say. “Only Lily and Daisy agreed to the show.” My eldest sister, Poppy, wouldn’t sign the contract because she didn’t want her daughter to be filmed. My little niece has already endured enough paparazzi since Lily’s scandal.
“Fine, she would have been a boring addition anyway.”
I glower.
“I’m just being honest.”