Page 31 of Filthy Rich

“Bradley.” His name is Brad Hawthorne, not Bradley, but I like to make him sound even nerdier than he is, and he’s mildly irritated by it, so I persist.

“I want to start out by saying that I do remember our deal.”

When I signed with him, I told him my one stipulation is that he must never try to manipulate me. If he tries managing or manipulating me, even once, I’ll walk. Our contract has a clause. I can terminate at any time for any reason. “Good.” Then this should be a short conversation. They always are.

“You’re making a mistake, dating the burned girl.”

“Don’t call her that,” I say. “Octavia has a name, and it’s a beautiful one. Just like her face.”

He clears his throat. “So it’s not just for publicity?”

I want to hang up.

And then fire him.

“Okay, well, I still think it’s a mistake. There are way too many ways it could go wrong, but it sounds like you’re set on this.”

“I am.”

“Then I guess I’ll do my best to manage whatever happens. But Jake?”

“What?”

“When you dump her, and you will dump her, be prepared. It’s going to be ugly for you.”

I do hang up then, but I don’t blame him for being worried. I can see why he’d assume that it was a mistake for me to date someone if the public might not approve. I haven’t dated anyone in. . .well, ever. Not really and truly dating, anyway. One night stands, the occasional passionate weekend. Sure.

And I’ve ‘officially’ dated plenty of movie stars. The tabloids are always claiming I’m secretly involved with my co-star, and usually the orders from the top brass are to foster those rumors right up until the movie hits the box office. Sometimes they even orchestrate big public break-ups when buzz starts to wane. People like it when their favorite leads are dating “in real life,” and they seem to like it even more when we crash and burn.

Not that any part of my supposed life is “real.”

What I eat, what I like, and what I do for my hobbies has all been carefully crafted by PR teams to make me look both tough and approachable. Handsome and yet vulnerable. It’s all a big steaming pile of garbage. Of course I don’t love Red Bull. It tastes like gym-sock-soaked-cola. I don’t enjoy cycling, but Peloton pays me a lot to pretend to love it. And I definitely don’t think tofurkey tastes anything like the actual roasted flesh of the bird, but here we are.

Imagine my surprise when, in my attempt to help Octavia, I discovered that I actually do like her. And then, when I came over to try and figure out what to do about it. . .she seemed to like me back. She’s not vacuous, selfish, or greedy, so I’m confused about what motivations she might have for liking me.

Could Octavia really be as shallow as all the girls who show up on set holding signs? Is she only interested in me because of my dimples? There’s no way she likes me for my brain. It’s mediocre at best. My singing voice—same. But for some reason she said she wanted to go on a date, and I’m embarrassingly excited about it. The problem is, I’m not really sure what to do on our date. I’ve just typed in “best first date ideas” on my laptop browser when there’s a knock at my door.

I groan.

It’s probably someone who wants to clean my windows. Or a salesman trying to convince me to change my laundry service. I think about ignoring it, but they bang again. “It’s me.” Eddy.

“And I’m here, too.” Shoot. That’s Adam Forrest, our producer.

“Coming.” I jog to the door and whip it open. “What brings you guys over?” I try to sound casual, but it has to be something about Octavia. The producer and the sound director—who’s also coordinating the album launch—is not a coincidence.

“We need to talk.” Adam looks ticked.

“About?” I lean against the doorway. “Is this about Octavia?”

“Can we come in?” Eddy has both eyebrows raised.

I sigh and shift, and they both walk through.

“This is a pretty nice place,” Adam says.

I can’t help my frown. “You should know. Your people found it for me.”

Adam walks toward the bay window overlooking the ocean.

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