Page 16 of Fool's Gold

“It’s never going to happen again, okay? I’m going to be there with you every step of the way, making sure things go how we need them to go. It’s the best I can do with the new circumstances.”

“Why does it matter to you what I do? You didn’t want me.” The second I say it out loud, my throat constricts and the corners of my eyes burn. “You can get anyone to do this film and execute a better performance than I will.”

I don’t have my parents’ talents. I might be the progeny of true Hollywood royalty, but their star quality never rubbed off on me the way I needed it to.

I didn’t want to do the movie in the first place, and now I’ve been maneuvered into a corner.

“You’re doing it, so stop crying.” Marcus refuses to listen to me.

Nothing has changed there.

Clutching the script to my chest, I wrench my arm, twisting until he’s got no choice but to let me go. I shove the script underneath my purse and head to the bathroom, where I left a pile of my things.

“I don’t have to stay,” I call out, grabbing the dirty clothes off the floor and shoving them into the plastic bag from the closet. “Not with you. And I don’t have to do this movie, no matter how much you glare at me. Your doom and gloom is your problem, Marcus. Keep it that way.”

This time, when I turn back to him, he shoves something new at me. I fumble the pass and catch sight of press photos of my parents. Marcus takes one of the pictures and shoves it right under my nose.

The tears are free. Oh, god, I can’t hold them back. Why am I crying again?

“Sit.”

It’s a command I’m powerless to struggle against.

Not when my legs are jelly and shock travels from the top of my skull to my tailbone. It spreads out like lightning everywhere in between, the hole in the bottom of my gut opening wide enough to swallow me whole.

They look so happy.

Both of them dressed in vintage Gucci, the colors coordinated by their stylists.

Mom’s smiling face was absolutely radiant, her hair done in a simple chignon at the top of her head. Dad glowed with pride, his arm around his wife’s waist, both of them facing the camera and weathering the bright flashing lights.

“Sit at the table, Empire.” Marcus forces me back into my seat. “Do this movie, stop acting like a spoiled brat. Or we’ll both end up like them.”

“You can’t keep using them against me.” Except we both know he can.

They are his weapon to maneuver me in place, to keep me shackled down.

I guess it’s too easy for me to forget. Like I’ve gotten used to the trauma or something. Marcus needs to remind me repeatedly about the crash, about how they were never meant to die, how I’ll be next if I don’t fall in line like a good girl.

Good girl, hell.

I’ll never be on my knees in front of him the way I want. I’ll always be the one struggling to muster up an argument, stubbornly, only to be beaten back.

SIX

“You’re not even going to look at the script?”

She tried to hide it underneath her purse—fat load of good it does—and for some reason, her hesitation has acid churning in my gut.

Rather than answer, she drops onto the bed and curls on her side. “Just go away.” Her voice is muffled by the pillows, but the intention is clear. She’d rather pretend the script, and I, don’t exist.

Using her parents’ old press photos is a dick move, and I’ve thrown it out there too many times for it to keep being effective. One of these days, she’s just going to come back at me swinging, and I’ll deserve every hit. But for Christ’s sake, something has to give.

If she digs trenches in the ground with her heels, refusing to play ball, then we’re going to have a massive problem.

I’m too fucking tired to keep dragging her in the right direction.

I avoid looking at myself in the mirror and seeing myself for what I really am. But by the time I glance at the bed, she’s asleep again. My heart softens, trapped in the cave of my ribs. Instead of staying and making things worse, I grab my car keys.

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