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  She saw him offering her attention and presents, promising that she was as talented as they came and there was nothing she couldn’t do.

  She saw him leading her into his trailer.

  She saw him sitting next to her on his couch beneath the window.

  And then she heard his filthy words. I want to know what you taste like.

  She screamed, long and guttural.

  He stood a safe distance away from her, his hands back up, still in pacification, looking around the room with a bemused smile as if to say, I know, right? Isn’t she crazy?

  The guards approached Liam Wentz from either side.

  “You need to leave the premises immediately,” one of them said.

  “Of course,” he nodded, perfectly compliant. “I absolutely understand. There’s no need for any of us to get hysterical.”

  Then he turned to her with a leering smile.

  And Sloane totally lost it, bellowing again as she shoved him with all of her might toward the door.

  He was smart enough to slacken his body and allow her to push him into a cumbersome stumble. Then Liam Wentz walked the rest of the way to the door on his own, turning back at the threshold to address her with a smile. “Just a fair warning … I will be filing assault charges.”

  Then he was gone.

  The guards were suddenly by her side.

  So were Lila, Becky, Sasha, Bennett, and Tomosino.

  But no Jolie, Miles, or Orson.

  And then in a flash all three of her saviors appeared, along with little Connor.

  Leaning down, Orson said something to his son, then passed them both off to Miles, who looked over to Sloane with understanding eyes as he led the children away, probably taking them to Jake.

  Orson marched over, pulled her into an embrace, then he held her while she broke down, petting the back of her head and promising that everything would still be okay.

  Once she was calm enough, he kissed her, turning Sloane’s screaming mind into something blissfully blank until she finally pulled away with a shake of her head.

  “I need to work.”

  “Not yet.” He took her hand and started walking toward the door.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “We’re not shooting anything else,” Orson told her. “Not without talking to the Shellys first.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Sloane

  Sloane leaned closer to Orson and said, “We should have called.”

  “It doesn’t matter how many times you mention it, we didn’t, and it’s too late to call now.”

  They were sitting outside the Shellys’ office, waiting for the receptionist to invite them inside. Sloane hadn’t wanted to barge in unannounced, but Orson assured her that this issue wasn’t a text exchange, or even a phone call. Some things needed to be settled face-to-face, hopefully once and for all.

  “We’re not just here for Dominic and Melinda,” Orson said.

  “Then why are we here?”

  “Because we needed to get you away from the set.”

  “You mean away from my job. The Shellys will be pissed at me.”

  “They’re not going to be pissed at you.”

  “Do you have any idea how many times they’ve told me I just need to ‘make the movie’ or ‘stick to the schedule,’ or … never mind.” She shook her head, the bluster now gone from her argument.

  She pulled out her phone.

  “Put that away.” A gentle hand on her wrist. “There’s nothing there you need to see.”

  Sloane had seen plenty already. Photos from that morning’s altercation, and all the artificial stories to go with them. Of course the Shellys must have already seen them.

  Pictures of Sloane Alexander shoving Liam Wentz — her face irate and his hands raised in surrender. Pictures of Sloane Alexander in the loving arms of Orson Beck — just another example of a home wrecking Mr. & Mrs. Smith situation. Pictures of Sloane Alexander acting unstable in public, yet again.

  She stared at the dark screen, tempted to turn it on and look, even if doing so made Orson disappointed in her. But she put the phone back in her pocket instead, then looked at the receptionist and asked a question she already knew the answer to.

  “Any updates?”

  “Sorry, Ms. Alexander.” She shook her head. “I’m sure it’ll just be another few minutes.”

  “Sloane,” she reminded her, not that it would make any difference. The receptionist still referred to Orson as “Mr. Beck.”

  “They’re lying about me.” Sloane stated the obvious.

  “I know.” He nodded and took her hand.

  “Everything is being misconstrued.”

  “You’re absolutely right.”

  “They’re acting like I’m having an affair with you right in front of Miles!”

  “Only the haters are acting like that, but yes, they are.” Orson continued to nod with the disaffected air of someone who had seen it all before.

  “Like I’m flaunting my movie star boyfriend in front of my daughter’s father, just to hurt him, and Jolie. When I bother to remember being a mother at all, of course. And you just know the Shellys are going to hit me with their all publicity is good publicity line. I bet they’re actually happy about this.”

  “I’m sure they’re the opposite. But I do agree that—”

  “Dominic and Melinda can see you now,” said the receptionist said, cutting him off.

  They stood, and Sloane tried not to feel irritated that Dominic and Melinda both got first names while she would apparently always be Ms. Alexander.

  “Sorry about the wait,” Melinda said before either of them had taken a seat. “We’ve been swamped all morning and weren’t expecting you.”

  “Though it is understandable that you’re here,” Dominic added.

  The Shellys traded a glance.

  Sloane got the distinct feeling that she and Orson were interrupting something important.

  “So, you’ve already heard?” Orson asked them.

  “Of course,” Melinda said.

  “I should have kept shooting.” Sloane shook her head, unable to look at either Dominic or Melinda for fear of witnessing their disappointment. “The whole thing just really caught me off guard and—”

  “It’s understandable,” Dominic said for the second time. “Wentz should never have appeared on our set — again. It’s disconcerting that he did, and you have every right to a genuine reaction.”

  “Thank you.” Sloane felt like a baby, wanting to cry.

  “What are you guys doing to take care of this?” Orson was more to the point. “No offense, but it seems like more than a few—”

  “Do ever actually mean no offense when you say those words?” Melinda asked him.

  “He’s just protecting me.”

  “Obviously,” Dominic said.

  Melinda gave a slight shake of her head. “There’s only so much we can do as a direct response to what happened today. The encounter was designed to encourage this exact result. No offense, Orson, but Sloane played into his little plan perfectly.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Don’t be,” Orson told her.

  “She should be,” Dominic disagreed. Then directly to Sloane. “You know better.”

  “Dominic …” Melinda said.

  But she was only playing Good Cop. Of course he was right.

  “Just tell us you have a plan and we’ll believe you,” Orson said.

  Dominic turned to him. “You already know we have a plan.”

  Orson tried again. “Then tell us what it is.”

  Melinda shook her head. “You know we can’t do that.”

  “He’s hitting us hard, and in unexpected places, but we’re dealing with it.”

  Sloane didn’t want to feel weak, but the words of defeat left her anyway. “Do you know how much it hurts to see all that gossip online?”

  “Melinda and I have both seen plenty of—”

  “And worse
than none of it being true—” Sloane cut Dominic off for the first time in her life “—is that a tiny circle of people who were all hired by someone in this room can’t be trusted.”

  Someone was betraying them, and that someone had been brought into the fold by either the Shellys or her.

  “You’re absolutely right,” Melinda said, but offered no solution.

  “People from your studio or my crew were taking pictures and video on their phones and selling them, either to make a quick buck with no regard to whether the stories were even true, or because they’ve been bought and paid for by Liam Wentz and that was part of their jobs — despite your constant assurances that this has all been taken care of.”

  The Shellys traded another look, then Dominic delivered some expected yet still devastating news. “This is a good thing, Sloane. People are talking about you, and about—”

  “How crazy I am? That I’m picking fights and throwing tantrums and having affairs and doing all kinds of—”

  “It’s okay,” Dominic said, his voice still soft. “Calm down.”

  “Don’t tell me to calm down!”

  “Dominic’s right. We understand how you feel, but this isn’t as bad as it might seem,” Melinda said. “Wentz has no case when it comes to libel, or anything else, and any footage out there can and will be used to fuel interest in our film.”

  “It looks like the feud might be starting to work for us,” Dominic added.

  “THE FEUD?” Sloane repeated. “Starting to work for us?”

  This was infuriating.

  Dominic explained. “Our crews record happenings on set and leak them to the press all the time. It’s—”

  “On this production?” Orson asked.

  “No,” Melinda said. “Of course not.”

  “Then it is a problem, right?” Orson looked right in her eyes.

  “A problem we’re dealing with,” she told him.

  Somehow, Sloane’s nightmare had decayed into something even worse. She had always imagined that as bad as things got, the Shellys would put her first. But sitting on the other side of their desk right now, with the two of them staring back at her, the truth had never felt more obvious.

  Sloane Alexander was just another pawn to them. Just another tool.

  She couldn’t trust them, which meant she might not be able to trust anyone.

  Including Orson. Sure, it seemed like he was on her side. But how long would that last? Everyone who had ever professed to love her, or promised to care for Sloane had failed her eventually.

  “But how are you dealing with it?” She shook her head. “And I don’t want to hear anything more about plausible deniability.”

  She got silence from the Shellys. And from Orson, who sat there waiting to see what might happen next.

  Sloane nursed her thoughts before spewing any more words. She was angry, sure, but the Shellys deserved more benefit of the doubt than anyone else in her life.

  She took a breath then made her argument. “Liam Wentz came to the studio this morning to provoke me, hoping to catch me in a vulnerable moment, which he did. And if he hadn’t, I’m sure he would have had someone PhotoShop the needed scene and the ‘evidence’ would be online, anyway.”

  Dominic nodded. “That’s all been established.”

  “But you still won’t tell me what you’re doing to make sure it doesn’t happen again!”

  “And we’re not going to,” Melinda said with a shake of her head. “I know that’s not what you want to hear, but it’s all we have for you this morning. Now, you’ll have to excuse me, I have an appointment in just under a half-hour from now, and at this time of morning, it’s a forty-minute drive.”

  The Shellys stood in tandem.

  Sloane and Orson left their seats a beat later.

  “I promise we’re looking out for you,” Melinda made a vow as they walked toward the door.

  “Okay,” Sloane said as she opened it, wanting to believe.

  Orson was quiet on their way to the car, then on the drive, and as they walked onto set. His disposition reminded her of Miles nursing something he both did and did not want to say.

  He stopped and turned to her just before they went back inside. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but I’ve seen the Shellys pull through enough—”

  “That’s not what’s on your mind right now,” she said. “What are you thinking?”

  Orson exhaled, then after a long moment he answered. “I’ve been through this before, and I don’t want to see you crucified in the media.”

  “What are you saying, Orson?”

  “That I think we should be more careful about how we treat each other in public … for now.”

  “I understand.” But it hurt so, so much.

  “For now,” he repeated.

  “Of course.” His qualifier didn’t make her injury hurt any less. “We should probably go inside.”

  Sloane entered and Orson followed.

  It was fine. She could deal with the pain. She would keep taking whatever this production or the world at large kept trying to pile on her. She would finish the movie and reap the rewards of her blockbuster art. Sloane had been through hell and come out the other side, so she could handle whatever Wentz or anyone else threw at her.

  So long as nothing happened to Jolie.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Melinda

  Once upon a time, there was a stunning young housewife who got in over her head and had to break a little bad to save her family.

  Instead of meth, she dabbled in prostitution. Her success was immediate, at least in the ways that matter, as she proved to have a sixth sense not for sex, but for human behavior itself.

  This made her an interesting asset for a married pair of up-and-coming moguls, in love with each other and with mission-based capitalism. Sex was one of their causes, and this wonderful MILF promised a way they could thread many of their initiatives together.

  Natalie Monroe secretly ran Blush, the most exclusive escort service in Hollywood and arguably the world. The Shellys secretly ran Natalie Monroe.

  Melinda was on her way to their opulent brothel for a much-needed discussion with Nat.

  They had started with twenty-nine escorts a few year ago and ran twice that number now. Women with an array of interests and looks, specialties and availabilities. Melinda had helped Natalie design a training program. These weren’t trick-turning college girls looking for a fast buck. This was a career for women who knew how to play best in the world.

  Blush was more than a mansion nestled in the hills where some of the world’s most expensive dreams could come true. The place served as a goldmine of information when the Shellys needed it. This was the dirtiest they played, but Dominic and Melinda were both smart enough to embrace holding history’s strongest hand.

  Sex had driven the planet for all recorded time, and surely eons before that. Sex was currency, and the blood in everyone’s veins. That simple understanding had fueled their ascension in Hollywood and business in general. Everything was about sex, not just the movies they made — all of them, in one way or another, even if there wasn’t so much as the barest hint of a coital suggestion. Sex had been a core component of filmmaking since long before the Hays Code because sex was core to humanity.

  In-call or out-call, their brothel was absurdly profitable in more ways than one. At Blush, sex was a secret weapon. Women were paid to listen as much if not more than they were paid to fuck. Sometimes the Shellys used sex to ply specific information out of an unassuming and overly vulnerable decision-maker’s hands. Knowing which emotional levers to pull or physical buttons to push or perhaps intimate areas to massage in exactly the right way could get an unwitting informant to spew like a fountain. The Shellys had sixty or so spigots at their everlasting disposal.

  Melinda pulled up to the mansion, handed her keys to the valet, then took her appointment card. A just in case given to every visitor coming to Blush — or the Hollywood Hill Center For Emotional
Wellness, so far as the permits were concerned — including the big boss.

  She looked down at her card. Bianca would be her on-call therapist for the day. Melinda wouldn’t really be using her services, but given more time she would love to indulge in the Playboy cover model, also Italy’s Playmate of the year in 2010. Bianca spoke three languages and had used two of them to write bestselling books under a male pseudonym.

  Twenty-thousand square feet worth of estate, insulated by acres of land. Melinda ascended the front steps with pride. Nat ran things here, but she and Dominic had built this, just as they had built so many other things together.

  Things that were now coalescing. Separate pieces finally becoming one. And ultimately whole.

  “Mrs. Shelly.” Elsa stood to greet Melinda as she entered.

  “Don’t get up.” She offered Elsa friendly wave as she passed. “Natalie is expecting me.”

  “Of course.” Elsa sat back down.

  Elsa’s real name was Andrea White. Melinda usually made a suggestion or two when a new girl joined the roster — so far none had left — but Nat had final call and always came up with excellent names. Elsa had platinum hair and Nordic features. Once she finished her training, she would surely have a waiting list.

  The door was open, so Melinda entered Nat’s office without knocking.

  She looked up from her computer screen, brightening at the sight of her. “Melinda, hi. I lost track of time. Please, sit.” Melinda was already taking her seat. Nat’s eyes were back on her computer screen. “Sorry … I’m just … okay, all done.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “I was just finishing the one-pagers. Here—” Nat clicked something with her mouse, apparently sent the one-pagers to an iPad on her desk, then slid the tablet over to Melinda. “You tell me.”

  Nat had started making the “one-pagers” for Melinda about a year ago. All Nat’s idea, and Melinda couldn’t love them any more. Blush was looking for lifelong clients, not random encounters, so first times were everything when it came to establishing potential lifetime value. Nat compiled all the pertinent information about a potential pairing when a new client contacted Blush, not just their interests and specialties, but those interests and specialties in specific relation to the client, as defined after an exhaustive background search.