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“May I remind you, Mr. Corbin, that your director, Lucas Morton, hired me. We signed a contract. I’ve done nothing wrong. The play premieres in two weeks. The backup actress hasn’t even learned the entire play yet. You won’t be able to find a sufficient replacement in time.”
“Everyone is replaceable.”
“Is that so?” I arch an eyebrow, knowing we’re both thinking about the same people. The people who left glaring holes in our hearts.
“Yes.” His nostrils flare. “Everyone.”
I can’t lose this job. For too many reasons to count.
“Not Nina, though.” My voice drops as I meet his gaze head-on. “Nina is a once-in-a-lifetime creature. I know you probably haven’t read The Seagull—”
“A lovestruck, ignorant country girl desperate to become a part of a world she doesn’t belong in?” he asks smoothly, his voice as dry as the Sahara Desert.
Well, then, I suppose he did read it.
He reaches to clasp my chin and closes my mouth with a movement so soft I can’t fully trust that he actually touched me. “Don’t look so surprised, Bumpkin. My former boarding school is the unofficial feeder of Harvard and Yale. I’d learned them all. The English, the Russians, the Greeks. Even the few Americans who managed to weasel their way into the world’s famous literature.”
I almost forgot how awful he is. Condescending, patronizing, and worst of all—gleeful about it. Then I remember the last thing he told me when we were at the morgue. How I was a gold digger who was probably happy to be rid of her rich husband.
I decided to use his jadedness against him.
“Fine.” I swat his hand away. “Fire me. See how that works out for you.”
He gives me a once-over, trying to read between the lines.
“Right, let me spell it out for you, in case your big ol’ brain can’t figure it out.” I put on my thickest accent, stubbing my chest with my finger. “This country bumpkin is gonna run to the nearest tabloid and sell her story. Don’t you know actresses? We’re a fame-seeking breed, Mr. Corbin. And what’d Andy Warhol once say? Ain’t no such thing as bad publicity.” I wink at him. “Plus, my story fits into the current cultural narrative like a glove to a hand. A rich, white, billionaire male going after a helpless widow just tryin’ to make it in the cruel Big Apple.” I press my palms together, looking heavenward. “Think about it. Our story is so juicy. Tongues would waggle for months! My loving husband caught with your fiancée, red handed, heading toward a romantic vacation in Paris. Why, I bet neither of us will be able to leave our apartment without getting caught by the paps!”
There is absolutely no way I could ever bring myself to do such a thing, but he doesn’t know that. He thinks the worst of me.
He believes me. He is also a highly private person. I know, because when news broke about Paul and Grace, someone—from Arsène’s camp, I always assumed—sold the newspapers the same story. About a work trip gone wrong. A terrible accident that claimed two coworkers, endlessly devoted to their significant others, out to get an urgent merger deal signed. There was one article on TMI, an online gossip site, speculating Paul and Grace were more than colleagues, but it was taken down within minutes.
Corbin’s arm is long, powerful, and within reach of most things in this town. But he can’t be in charge of every tabloid, every newspaper, every TV channel. Someone would want to buy what I am willing to sell, and we both know that.
He inches forward. The scowl on his face makes him look like a pagan god. This man is used to scaring people. Well, he ain’t going to scare me.
“Your presumption, that anything—least of all you—can touch me, not to mention humiliate me, is endearing.” His gaze moves down my features like a blade, a sardonic smirk tugging at the side of his lips. “You’re lucky I’m a big fan of opportunists. They’re my favorite breed of people. Now, any other backup plan to stop me from giving you the boot? And drop the exaggerated accent. You’re fooling no one, Bumpkin.”
My stomach is full of venomous snakes. I hate Arsène for making me fight for my hard-earned job. I passed the audition on merit. He has no right to do this.
Suddenly, I remember this man’s love language—money.
“Sure. Other than the gossip part, there’s also the legal matter. I can blow up whatever’s left of this place and make it an even more expensive venture for you. Imagine the headline, Mr. Corbin.” I frame my fingers in the air. “Actress Winnifred Ashcroft Sues for Wrongful Termination.”
“It’s not wrong to want the woman whose husband fucked my dead fiancée far away from me.”
“New York is mighty big, and as far as I’m aware, you haven’t set foot in Calypso Hall for decades before today.” I loop a curl that escaped through my ponytail along my finger. “Y’all never paid any attention to this place in the decades your family owned it. Didn’t spend a dime on restoring it either. It was only when I saw you here that I remembered what Grace had said in Italy—”
