Page 19 of Fool's Gold

“I need to speak to her to make sure she understands her part.” Celeste folds her hands one over the other, pressing them flat against her front. “Wretched must be completed without a hitch, and thus far, she has not done anything to inspire, shall we say, confidence in her.”

“I’ll take care of the girl.” I lean back against my desk and grip the wooden top. “No one else. She’s none of your business.”

Celeste holds her palms up in front of her. “There’s no need for you to get angry. Although from what I understand, you’re famous for your temper. I admit, I’m looking forward to seeing it in person.”

I’m not the only masochist in the room. Celeste might look like a Nordic princess, but she got her position of power somehow. She’s the kind who likes it rough, who likes to be screamed at and degraded.

I can smell her type from a mile away.

“My temper is the least of your concerns. You think I’m full of threats about Sherry? Step one foot out of line toward Empire Stone and see what happens.”

Knuckles turning white, I stare Celeste down. This isn’t the blustery sort of anger she can brush off. This is deep, a well of never-ending thunder and acid.

“Fine,” she says like the waving of a white flag. “I agree, as long as the girl stays in line. If you fail to do your duty, then it will be up to me to rectify the situation. I’m not going anywhere, Mr. Ortega. You better get used to seeing me around.”

Even the way she says my name has me swallowing over glass. But at least she’s stopped. There isn’t a single hair out of place, but somehow we’ve managed to come to the proverbial line in the sand, and both of us are toeing it.

For the time being.

Celeste abruptly turns on her heel, and once she’s out of the room, I let out a breath. A small measure of oxygen returns, but I feel the noose tightening around my neck. A covert glance around the four corners of the room shows only the small dark spots where my own cameras are hidden.

Where have Celeste and Stanic planted the new ones? They’re here.

I straighten when Celeste returns and holds out a slim manilla folder, waiting with a single eyebrow lifted for me to take it.

Only one, I think, like two are too much trouble for her.

“Here is your new production schedule,” she says. Then, without waiting for me to open the folder, she continues with, “You have two months to finish Wretched. In that time, you’ll have to make preparations to get it out there, including scheduling press releases, interviews, cast parties, etcetera. You know the drill. You’ve been in this business a long time.”

Shock numbs my fingers, and I grip the folder harder. “I can’t do that. It’s too soon.” She’s out of her goddamn mind. “I don’t even know what scenes Parker has shot yet. Two months isn’t long enough to start cleaning up his mess, let alone get this filmed and wrapped and released.”

Two months is a ridiculously tight schedule in a perfect world. In this one? It’s insane. I’m a sweaty goddamn mess.

Celeste is unbothered and without a single crack in her perfect goddess facade. “Then you better figure it out.”

This time when she exits the room, she doesn’t come back. Leaving me alone with the deadline from hell and tension in my right arm that’s starting to feel suspiciously like a heart attack.

SEVEN

The words on the page blur together in a tangled mess of black and leave me with a hangover-bad headache.

Squinting doesn’t help. Neither does scrubbing my face until stars and dark spots dance behind my closed eyelids. It feels like forever since the last time I read through the script, and as I go over the lines now, nothing pricks at my memory. Whether I actually saw the scenes before this or not is lost to me.

I don’t remember any of the lines.

Groaning, I let the pages drop between my crossed legs and flop onto my back, staring at the ceiling again and tracing familiar patterns along the design. I saw them all last night when I couldn’t sleep. Those, weirdly, I remember. Every crevice.

But not Alicia’s lines. Not the scenes with Mr. Patterson.

The only thing I remember about those was acting them out with Marcus, and then my attention had narrowed to the hardness of his cock and what his hands were doing to me. Even the memory is enough to make my pussy tingle.

Focusing on the script today is impossible.

I force myself to push back up to a seated position. The bed is probably not the best place to go over lines. It’s too soft, too comfortable, and it reminds me of the sleep I didn’t get last night being so close to him.

Holding the script in one hand, I scramble for the edge of the mattress and switch positions, leaning into the hard chair back at the table instead.

The words are still a blur, only this time the press pictures of Mom and Dad fill my mind, too.

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