“Fine,” she says, reaching for her discarded cover-up. “Take me back to the hotel. I need a break from all of this.”
As I guide her through the crowd, Sterling appears at my side.
“Everything all right?” he asks, his smile never slipping.
“Just getting some air,” I reply, not slowing our exit.
“The photographers got some excellent shots,” he murmurs, glancing meaningfully at my arm around Bix’s waist. “Passion sells albums.”
I resist the urge to tell him exactly what he can do with his publicity stunts. Instead, I nod curtly and continue toward the exit, Bix silent beside me.
What Sterling doesn’t understand—what I barely acknowledge to myself—is that the anger coursing through me, the jealousy, isn’t manufactured for cameras. It’s real. And dangerous.
Because seeing Bix dance for someone else made me want to break things.
And that was never part of the contract.
CHAPTER 28
BIX
“You look lovely,” Sterling says as I walk into the lobby that evening. I’m wearing one of Antoine’s choices—a dress I could never imagine wearing in New York.
The Grace Kelly-style bodice fits close to my midriff, while yards of silk billow into a dramatic bell skirt. Too 1950s for my taste, but Antoine insisted.
“You’re not one for black eye makeup and silver tattoos like today’s young stars,” he’d said, adjusting the neckline. “You hearken back to an earlier era.”
I’d nodded dutifully, focused more on the big payout and my first evening glimpse of Saint-Tropez.
But now, catching my reflection in the polished marble floors, I feel the glamor settling over me like a spell, transforming me into someone I barely recognize.
“Slayer will be down in a moment,” I say, nodding a hello to Milo. But before I can explain further, Slayer emerges from the elevator in a perfectly cut suit makes my pulse jump despite myself.
Even though there are no reporters present that I can see, Slayer rests his hand on the narrow of my waist as he guides me to the limousine.
Sterling works his phone throughout the ride, making deal after deal, his voice both charming and demanding.
For a moment, I let myself imagine that Sterling’s talking about me. Not as Slayer’s fake girlfriend, but as a real artist he’s grooming.
In my fantasy, he’s negotiating millions for my performances, not dictating what I should wear to best complement Slayer’s image.
The car stops at a restaurant bathed in golden light. It looks like a movie set, all old-world charm.
A hostess shows us inside. Dark wood, crisp white linens, and the soft glow of candles create an atmosphere of timeless elegance.
But when we arrive at our table, my smile falters. There’s an extra chair.
My question is answered when Valentina sweeps in, wearing a crimson dress that clings to every perfect curve.
“Oh darling, so sorry I’m late!” she exclaims, distributing kisses like party favors, leaving sticky gloss on my cheek.
When she reaches Slayer, she murmurs something in French—a language they seem to have in common—that makes him smile that private smile I saw only once, in his apartment.
I’m seated to her left, with Slayer across from us both. Sterling’s orchestration couldn’t be more obvious.
“What’s she doing here?” I whisper to Milo, who’s swiping through what looks like an upscale dating app.
“Slayer wanted her to come,” he replies without looking up.
