Page 35 of Sixth Sin

“Jade, what do you have to say to Paulo Bellini’s victims?”

“I can’t do this,” I whisper.

“Angel—”

Resentment slices through me like a hot blade. “Don’t ‘Angel’ me! You sat behind your computer screen while they tore my life apart.” I pause, swallowing the bile rising in my throat. “You don’t know what I went through.”

I expect him to deflect with one of his sarcastic comebacks, but instead, he stands quietly, his jaw locked, and his eyes shadowed in thought. “You’re right. I don’t. But they’re not in control this time; you are.”

“It doesn’t feel that way.”

“Look at them.” He tips his chin toward the lawn. I want to defy him, but something holds me back, and I comply, turning toward the herd as he adds, “They’re not strong; they’re starving.”

“For what?”

“Information, rook. Their Romanov addiction has been unfed for fifteen years. All I’ve done is throw a scrap of bread into a hungry crowd. What they sink their teeth into next is up to you.”

“How is it up to me?”

“You claim to be a good actress, so prove it.” A deadly challenge flickers in those glacial blue eyes. “You blame me for what could have been. Well, this is your stage, and those are your fans. Take everything you learned in the last twenty-four hours and create Alexandra Romanov.”

A second chance. It’s all I’ve wanted and feared tied together and laid at my feet. Losing everything once was hard enough, but I got through it. I salvaged the pieces Hollywood left behind and went on with my life. Because I didn’t fail me. Fate failed me. Luck failed me.

Dominic McCallum and his unholy crusade failed me.

But along with a second chance at success comes a second chance at failure. And this time, fate came for me. Luck sought me out. And Dominic McCallum opened the door. If I blow it this time, I have no one to blame.

“But I don’t know her personality,” I push back.

Dominic meets my excuses head on. “It’s whatever you want it to be. You’re writing your own lines in this movie, rook.”

So, despite the fear still swirling in my chest, I step forward. Because despite what Dominic says, deep down, a part of me knows this is all temporary. All fame is fleeting, and my star will burn out. However, I’ve wasted a lifetime wishing to be someone else. Now I can be.

I don’t look at Dominic again, but I know he’s behind me as the band of paparazzi close in. I feel his hand brace against my lower back. Steadying me. Reassuring me.

“Remember,” he whispers in my ear. “Less is more.”

“You’re writing your own lines in this movie.”

As microphones shove in my face and cameras flash, I lift my chin. “May we help you?”

The faces dotting the front line blank, momentarily stunned by my calm question. However, a buzz quickly hums through the crowd as one particularly pushy man in a dirty T-shirt and a baseball cap steps forward, shoving his microphone past me and straight into Dominic’s face. “Dominic McCallum, I presume?”

Dominic shrugs. “You presume a lot.”

Paparazzi are a unique breed. During my brief fifteen minutes of fame, I learned they are journalistic vampires hovering in the shadows just waiting to sink their fangs into whomever they can bleed dry for a buck. Unfortunately, silence only feeds their blood lust.

Which is obvious when the baseball hat guy rolls his eyes and tosses out a succession of rapid-fire questions. “What’s with the news blast? Did you really find Alexandra Romanov or is this just some publicity stunt? Is this her? Why come forward now?”

I stiffen, familiar anxiety seeping through the cracks in my façade. Dominic, on the other hand, remains unbothered. “Why don’t you ask her yourself?”

Dozens of paparazzi fall silent as Dominic settles that lethal gaze on me. An irrational part of me wants to dive back inside the car, lock the doors, and bury my head in my hands until they all go away. But that’s ridiculous. This is what I agreed to, and fear or no fear, there’s no turning back now.

Remember, less is more.

I clear my throat and force a timid smile. “As I’m sure you all can imagine, the last twenty-four hours have been very confusing and overwhelming. While I appreciate your interest, please understand I can’t give you any information until we’ve met with the estate.”

“The Romanov estate, you mean,” the baseball hat guy says, inching closer. “So, you are claiming to be Alexandra Romanov, the missing heiress, correct?”

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