There’s something in her tone I don’t like. An implication. A suggestion. Like she knows something she shouldn’t.
“Mason’s my assistant.”
“Of course he is, darling.” Her smile could cut glass. “Though people are starting to talk. An omega actress spending so much time with her omega assistant. It looks… particular.”
“Let them talk.”
“Oh, I intend to. Buzz is buzz, after all.” She stands, martini already forgotten. “I should go say hello to Richard. His new project sounds fascinating.”
She’s gone before I can respond, swallowed by the crowd of sycophants and social climbers. The abandoned martini sits on our table like an accusation.
“I fucking hate her sometimes,” I mutter.
“She’s your mother.”
“Doesn’t make her less awful.”
Mason slides the water glass toward me. “Drink.”
“I’d rather have tequila.”
“I’m sure you would.”
But I drink the water anyway, because Mason asked me to, and I’ve never been good at denying him anything. The ice helps clear some of the fog from my brain, but not enough to make this night bearable.
“We can leave,” Mason offers. “Whenever you want.”
“And go where? Back to the hotel so I can stare at the ceiling and watch network television?” I reach for the tequila again. “At least here I’m lonely with an audience.”
“Phoenix—”
“It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”
Nothing’s fine. My career’s imploding, my mother’s scheming, I’m trapped in a fake relationship with an alpha who sees me as a business opportunity, and I’m probably in love withmy assistant who deserves so much better than the mess I’ve become.
But sure. Fine.
I pour another shot, raise it in a mock toast to the empty air.
“Here’s to being lonely in a crowd.”
The tequila burns, but not much more than any of the rest of it.
THREE
MASON
“Careful.”
My hand hovers an inch from Phoenix’s lower back as she navigates the jet’s narrow stairs in her four-inch heels. She’s wearing oversized sunglasses despite the overcast morning, her copper hair pulled into what she probably thinks is a messy bun but actually took twenty minutes to arrange. The leather jacket draped over her shoulders costs more than most people’s monthly rent, but underneath she’s wearing yoga pants and a well-worn hoodie that was a wrap gift for the made-for-TV movie that was one of her earliest roles. Somehow she manages to look both exhausted and effortlessly elegant.
She wobbles on the third step.
“I’m fine,” she mutters, gripping the railing harder.
I stay close enough to catch her if she falls. Not that she’d thank me for it. Phoenix hates appearing weak almost as much as she hates mornings, and combining the two with a hangover creates a perfect storm of irritability.
The cabin smells like leather and that particular blend of coffee only available on airplanes—overpriced and underwhelming. Phoenix collapses into the first available seat,rips off the sunglasses to toss on the seat beside her and lets out a groan that would be dramatic if I didn’t know exactly how much tequila she consumed last night.
