“I shouldn’t have mentioned your mother like that.” His thumb brushes against my pulse point, probably feeling how my heart races like a trapped bird. “That was cruel.”
The apology sounds almost genuine, but the way he delivers it—with that same unshakeable confidence, like he’s doing me another favor by acknowledging his mistake—makes me want toscream. Everything about Atticus Sloan is calculated perfection, from his carefully tousled hair to the way he angles his body to shield me from prying eyes. Even his remorse comes wrapped in arrogance.
“Phoenix.” His voice drops lower, meant only for me. “You really don’t want to have a breakdown here.”
“I’m not having a?—“
He tilts his head toward the entrance, where photographers are already filtering inside, their cameras ready to capture any hint of drama. One of them spots us, his lens swinging our way like a weapon.
“Smile,” Atticus murmurs, his own mouth curving into that practiced expression that graces album covers and billboard ads. “Unless you want tomorrow’s headlines to be speculating about why you were seen crying at your own premiere.”
God, I hate that he’s right. I force my lips into something resembling pleasant while my insides twist into knots. The photographer snaps a few shots before moving deeper into the lobby, hunting for other prey.
“Come on.” Atticus releases my wrist, but hovers close enough that his body heat radiates against my bare back. “Let’s get inside before they circle back.”
He gestures toward the theatre doors, where ushers wait to guide guests to their seats. The thought of sitting through two hours of my own terrible performance while surrounded by critics makes my skin crawl, but it beats standing here letting Atticus manage me like I’m a child having a tantrum.
I start walking, spine rigid. His hand finds my lower back again, fingers spreading possessively against the exposed skin where my dress dips low.
“Don’t touch me.” I step sideways, putting space between us.
His hand drops immediately, but that insufferable hint of amusement plays at the corner of his mouth. Like my resistance is cute. Like I’m a kitten hissing at a wolf.
TWO
PHOENIX
The tequila burnsa familiar path down my throat.
Number four? Five?Lost count somewhere between the second round of congratulations from people who clearly hadn’t watched the movie and the third time someone asked if Atticus and I were “official.”
The VIP section of Lux throbs with bass heavy enough to rattle my bones. Purple lights sweep across the crowd of beautiful people pretending to have meaningful conversations over music that makes actual conversation impossible. The booth’s leather sticks to my bare thighs where my dress has ridden up, and I tug at the hem halfheartedly.
Mason sits beside me, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something clean and understated that he probably had specially crafted. Everything about him is precise and intentional, even at 1am. He’s loosened his tie, the only concession to the late hour and informal setting. Even here, surrounded by Hollywood’s finest degenerates, he looks like he stepped out of a boardroom. Or maybe that’s just how I see him—my anchor in this cesspool of fake smiles and faker friendships.
“The premiere wasn’t that bad,” he says, voice pitched low enough that only I can hear.
I snort. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m an excellent liar. I just don’t ever lie to you.”
The distinction makes something warm bloom in my chest. Or maybe that’s the tequila. Hard to tell anymore.
“They laughed during my death scene.” I reach for the shot glass, remembering too late it’s already empty. “My dramatic, Oscar-worthy death scene where I’m supposedly drowning in my own blood, and some asshole in the third row actuallygiggled.”
Mason’s hand covers mine before I can signal the waitress for another round. His fingers are warm, steady. Safe. “They also gasped during the chase sequence.”
“Yeah, when my bikini top almost fell off.”
“Phoenix—”
“And that touching moment where I’m supposed to be mourning my dead sister?” I pull my hand free, needing the distance. “Someone’s phone went off. Playing ‘Baby Shark.’ The entire theater lost it.”
Mason sighs, that particular exhale he reserves for when I’m being difficult. Which, according to him, is roughly eighty percent of the time.
“We have a six AM call time tomorrow,” he reminds me. “Flight leaves at eight.”
“Fantastic. Can’t wait to do this all over again in…” I blank on the city. “Where are we going?”
