Page 7 of Isabelle and the Beast

I look down at the photo in my hands, one I hadn’t paid attention to in years. It’s a picture from about fifteen years ago, a memory of better times. A pang shoots through my chest. Sometimes I wish I could just go back.

I stride over to my desk and set the frame down by my computer monitor. I’ll have to put it back in the study later. The sticky note on my desk reminds me why I’m going through all of this trouble. My list of sponsors, almost completely deleted, is down to two companies—LuxeLife Apparel and VerveTech. Everyone else has dropped me, and I can’t necessarily blame them.

My phone buzzes with a text from Jim Lovett. A.k.a. my manager. A.k.a. Isabelle’s dad.

Jim Lovett

Hope things are going well with Isabelle. Please call me tonight after you’re done speaking with her. We have an issue with LuxeLife.

There goes another sponsor.

I’m getting desperate.

I wish I weren’t in this position. And I have no one to blame but myself.

And Tristan.

When I got my first starring role, Tristan Jackson, Hollywood’s Golden Boy, reached out to me. As a former child actor who grew up in the business, he offered to give me some advice—including financial advice. I was stupid and naive, and I trusted his suggestion to invest in a start-up his friend, James Hook, created.

But when the start-up crashed and burned, so did my savings. And Tristan just laughed in my face.

I cut Tristan from my life and earned the reputation as the Hollywood Hothead, while he continued rising as everyone’s favorite romance actor. Is it my fault I wanted my costumes to fit a certain way, and that my coffee had to be piping hot first thing in the morning? I think not. I’d been able to mostly avoid him until he sidled up to me at the Goldies eight months ago, describing his plans with my little sister, Lily, while smiling for the cameras and…

Well, that’s enough of that. My hands are tightening around my phone just thinking about the memory, and I don’t need my anger with Tristan to cause me to do something completely rash. Despite the temptation to hurl my phone against the wall, I hold back. Besides, I just did that a couple of weeks ago. Lionel doesn’t need to make the trip down the mountain to get me a new phone again. But I let the anger fuel my drive to work harder, to protect my sister and keep the promises I’ve made her.

My financial situation wasn’t a huge problem when I had movie deals coming in to replace that lost income. But now that I’ve become a complete outcast, I’m running out of options. And crawling back home to my father and brother like a dogwith its tail between its legs isn’t an option. I abandoned everyone after my mother died, and I’m sure my father wants nothing to do with me.

So, yes. I need to make this movie work. Even though it’s a *GAG* rom-com. I’ve never filmed anything light-hearted and “fun.” To me, a truly fun movie involves a lot of explosions and action. Some kissing is fine, as long as it isn’t the focal point.

But a movie that centers on love and romance?

Count me out.

Except I don’t really have a choice. No one wants me anymore. I already had a reputation of being difficult to work with. It’s unlikely I’ll be wanted by anyone else in the future, unless I make some kind of public apology, begging for Tristan’s forgiveness and claiming I wish I could go back in time and change my actions.

The problem is I would absolutely, one hundred percent punch Tristan Jackson again if I had the chance.

But that’s not understood by the public. And it won’t be public knowledge, not when Lily is at stake.

What a mess.

I stand, about to get some kind of liquor to dull the ache in my mind, when I remember my promise to Lily.No sad drinking, Adam.I sink back into my seat, hearing her scold me for the stupid decision that originally led to my loss of sight in my left eye. For her sake, I’ll handle this all while sober.

A knock sounds on my door. “Mr. Stone?” Lionel peers into the office, the only employee here allowed in this room.

“Yes, Lionel?”

“Ms. Lovett is in the Lily room. All is in order for dinner.” He hesitates a moment.

“What is it?” I snap.

“Perhaps you would like to…change into something more…” His voice trails off, and he gestures at my clothes with his hand.

“No.” My voice comes out like a bark.

“Sir.” Lionel steps into the study with light, graceful steps. I’ve known him ever since we moved to the States when I was twelve years old and angry at leaving my home. He’s seen me at my worst and my…

Well, no. He’s really only seen me at my worst.

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