ONE
PHOENIX
“Phoenix! Phoenix! Over here!”
The wall of cameras flashes bright enough to blind me. I resist the urge to shield my eyes and blink slowly until the spots in my vision fade, only for another round of flashes to go off when I shift my expression. I’ve been dealing with this circus since I was six years old, so you’d think I’d be used to it by now. But nope. Every red carpet gauntlet still feels like I’m being paraded past a group of starving lions while draped in raw meat.
“Who are you wearing tonight?”
“Is it true you were spotted leaving Chateau Marmont at four AM last week?”
I keep my smile frozen in place, the one I spent hours perfecting in the bathroom mirror while Mom stood over me giving detailed instructions. Chin down slightly, eyes up, lips parted just enough to look approachable but not desperate. Something halfway between startled ingenue and practiced whore about to give a blow job.
The burgundy Versace gown clings to every curve—chosen specifically to remind everyone I’m not that sweet little girl from my kids’ channel sitcom days anymore. The plunging necklineand thigh-high slit scream adult, sophisticated, andplease Godtake me seriously.
Too bad the press only sees a party girl playing dress-up.
A reporter shoves a microphone in my face, breath reeking of stale coffee. “Phoenix, are you dating anyone?”
“I’m focusing on my career right now,” I recite, the words as automatic as breathing. My publicist would be proud. Well, she would if she hadn’t quit last month after what she called my ‘inability to maintain a coherent public image.’
Translation: stop getting photographed stumbling out of clubs at dawn.
The reporter’s eyes gleam with predatory interest. “But surely a beautiful omega like yourself must have every alpha in town lining up?—”
My smile tightens. There it is. Can’t go five minutes without someone reminding me of my designation, like it’s the only interesting thing about me. Female omegas have always been overrepresented in younger Hollywood roles. We’re usually the interchangeable love interest in blockbuster action franchises or the girl who gets chased down by a masked killer while half-naked, but it’s basically impossible to be taken seriously as an actress once you’re past the legal drinking age.
I might as well have an expiration date stamped on my forehead.
“I think what matters is the work,” I say, deflecting with practiced ease. “This film represents a real evolution in my career.”
“Speaking of evolution,” another reporter cuts in, practically salivating, “the early reviews have been… mixed. One critic called it ‘a spectacular misfire.’ How do you respond to that?”
Heat floods my cheeks, and not the good kind. The kind that makes me want to grab that microphone and shove it somewhere anatomically improbable. But before I can commit afelony assault with photographic evidence, a warm hand settles on the small of my back.
“There’s our leading lady.”
Atticus Sloan slides into frame like he was born for it—which, considering his father is a world famous music executive and his mother graced every magazine cover in the nineties, he basically was. His hand burns through the thin fabric of my dress, and I catch his scent—always sweeter than I expect like jasmine and plum with an undertone of musky amber. That smell always makes my nose twitch in a way that I can’t decide whether I love or hate.
If I didn’t avoid alphas like the plague, Atticus would probably near the top of the list of ones I’d be considering.
Though let’s be honest, everyone is half in love with Atticus Sloan. Famous rock musician, now dabbling in acting because the world just can’t get enough of that stupidly gorgeous face of his. He hasn’t been named Sexiest Man Alive yet, but it’s only a matter of time.
We spent about a week on location at the same time because he played a bit part in my most recent movie. But even after sharing maybe two scenes total with him, I already know he has an ego big enough that I’m surprised it even fit in his trailer on set.
The cameras go insane.
“Atticus! Are you two together?”
“How long have you been dating?”
“Is this why you took the role?”
He pulls me closer, and I have to fight not to stiffen. His thumb traces a small circle on my back, invisible to the cameras but impossible for me to ignore. “Phoenix is an incredible talent,” he says, voice smooth as aged bourbon. “Working with her has been…” He pauses, looks down at me with those stupidlyperfect green eyes that look like jewels against the deep brown of his skin, and smiles. “Life-changing.”
Oh, you absolute bastard.
The reporters eat it up like starving wolves. Questions fly at us from every direction, but Atticus just keeps that enigmatic smile in place, occasionally murmuring something that could mean anything or nothing. His hand never leaves my back, possessive in a way that makes my skin crawl and sing at the same time.
