Page 66 of Wicked Fortune

And because I can’t, I open my phone to the photo of the letter, then stand up and go to our connecting door. I’m about to tap on it when I realize that it’s already slightly ajar, which means if I knock, it will just fly open. Fine if he’s alone, bad protocol if he’s got someone in there.

I bend forward, my ear to the crack. At first, I hear just a slight murmur, as if he might be on the phone. I start to push the door a bit more, just for a peek, when I freeze, every ounce of blood in my body going cold from the single word I’ve heard.

Gardner.

TWENTY-THREE

I hold my breath, then lean closer, straining to hear. Had I really heard him say Gardner?

And even if he did, was he talking about Jenny? Maybe he was talking about an actual gardener. After all, the studio grounds are gorgeous. There must be dozens of gardeners on payroll.

Or maybe I’m trying too hard.

Or maybe I need to quit guessing, keep listening, and try to gather some facts.

I bend over, putting my ear closer to the crack. I still can’t make out the actual conversation, though. Just a few snippets of sentences about budgets and financial reports.

“—cost overruns for three consecutive quarters.” That’s Matthew’s voice, and it’s easy enough to hear, probably because he’s clearly irritated. “—reconciliation this quarter.”

Whoever is with him responds, but I can’t make out his actual words.

“Dammit, Joel, we can’t … women … lock it down.”

I hear the sound of shuffling paper, then another voice, presumably Joel’s. “… same page … international … channels.”

I don’t know exactly what they’re talking about, but my stomach’s starting to twist in response to the very, very scary thoughts that are forming in my mind.

I tell myself this isn’t happening. My mind is just spinning off into a bad place. A very bad place considering that fears of human trafficking are filling my head.

But there’s no way that the Matthew Holt who touched me so gently and made me feel so special could be involved in something as heinous as that.

Then again, I know better than most how someone who seems perfect can turn out to be the worst kind of vile.

Oh god, oh god, oh god…

“… tell Elias the next time I set a meeting, he needs to get his ass to my office,” Matthew’s voice says, sharp and controlled. “He’s … down … fucking soon.”

Elias Trent. He’s the head of Talent Relations, the department that organizes the meet-and-greets. And Joel Carradine is a relatively new hire in that same department, having joined only about three months ago.

My stomach does a clenching number again. I don’t want to think about what all this means. I really, really, really don’t want to think about it.

But my brain has other ideas, and I stumble away from the door as Bree’s voice comes back to me. “The alien guy said she might be right for some roles they were casting in London.”

The “alien guy” whose initials are E and T.

Elias. Trent.

No. Please, no.

But my mind is already spinning. Misallocated money. Scandal. International stuff. And I’m kicking myself for not thinking of it the first time I heard that name.

Was Elias Trent shipping girls off to London for auditions? Or was that a cover and he was really sending them for something else? Because I’ve watched enough movies to know that’s a recipe for human trafficking. And Liam Neeson is never around when you need him.

Except this can’t be right. There’s no way the Matthew I know could be involved in something like that.

Except maybe he could. I want to believe that we connected—that I understand who he really is. But maybe I’ve only seen what he wants me to see.

I’ve read enough about him to know that he pursued his dream with ruthless intention. Hell, he’s said as much in his interviews.