“You’ll love it.” Roberta stands from her desk and walks around to her office door. That’s the signal, the international sign that this conversation is over. When Roberta Feuerstein opens her office door, you are dismissed. Many hearts have been broken this way, and today I’m left defeated.
Yet as I pass her, she reaches out to pat my cheek affectionately.
“I’m sorry it’s come to this, David.”
I flinch at the sound of my real name. Very few people use it anymore. To the public, my fans, even my friends—except Vin—and colleagues, I am Damian Marshall, the world’s highest-paid actor and current reigning Sexiest Man on the Planet. David got left behind in North Dakota, and I don’t miss him even a little bit.
I give Roberta a tired smile because she didn’t call me David to be cruel, only sincere.
“You better have booked us somewhere nice,” I say, throwing an accusatory finger her way.
She purses her lips, and not a single wrinkle appears. “The Regal Beaver Inn or something like that. Ivy did the booking. She said it was the best she could find. Oh, and it’s a floating hotel, so it’ll be nice and quiet, away from everyone and everything.” She opens the door wider.
Normally, Roberta walks her best clients across the lobby and ends their meetings with a kiss on each cheek. It’s a pageant, meant to impress whatever bigwig or wannabe is sitting in her lobby. There’s always someone. Sometimes I see people I know. Often, precious newbies with dreams in their eyes and hope on their lips watch me, speechless as I make my way through the space like I own the place. I don’t. Roberta does. But her commission on my work has paid for a lot of the upgrades to the office since we teamed up.
And we have been that. A team.
Today though, I walk alone.
