I feel like shit leaving Stassia, but this call is important. “Talk to me,” I demand.

“What did you do?” The voice screeches on the other end of the line.

Clearing my throat, I lift my hand and run my fingers through my hair. “Can you fix it?” I ask.

Roman growls. My publicist. I don’t typically need his services, so his monthly retainer is easy money. He’s about to earn his pay though. I should feel guilty, but I don’t, not really.

“I can. I think,” he grunts. “It’s being leaked tonight. It will be everywhere tomorrow. Luckily, I work nights, for a price.”

I chuckle. “Fix it, Roman,” I order.

“You keeping her?” he asks.

Closing my eyes for a moment, I think about Stassia. I think about her sweet little body, the noises she makes when she comes, her green eyes, and her strawberry blonde hair. Then, I think about her smile and the way just looking at her makes me feel.

“Yeah,” I grumble before I clear my throat. “Yeah, I am.”

“Good news, nobody knows her name. Do I even want to know how you obtained her? Is it legal?” he asks.

Sighing, I pinch my eyes closed. “It’s not. I’ll talk to her parents later tonight. Release her name, until last week she was a principal dancer for the ballet. We met when I saw her on stage. I was enamored by her,” I offer.

“Good, this is all good. How old is she? I saw the picture…”

A growl erupts. It’s loud, and I’m sure my parents have heard it, all the way in the foyer, but I don’t care. “Don’t. Do not even go there. Stassia is nineteen years old. Nineteen. She is a ballerina.”

“Fuck, okay. I had to ask, Christ man. I’ll get the publicity packet ready and email it to you for approval. Keep your phone next to you.”

Roman ends the call abruptly. I’m not offended he’s hung up so quickly. I know him, he’s completely focused on the job now. Which is a good thing. Shoving my phone back in my pocket, I head toward the foyer. Toward my parents and Stassi.

My father’s gaze meets mine first. He’s standing next to my mother, still right in front of the closed front door. He frowns, but it isn’t like him to say anything, not yet at least.

Margot Sullivan on the other hand is a goddamn wildcard. “Father, mother,” I murmur. “I see you’ve met Stassia.”

My mother lifts her head, and her eyes meet mine. I don’t look at her lips to see if she’s smiling, she can fake that better than anyone I’ve ever met. Her eyes, however, those always hold the truth, at least somewhere deep inside.

Tonight my mother’s eyes, they’re smiling. I let out a sigh of relief.

Thank fuck.

Kenneth and Margot sit across from me, and they seem happy as they ask non-evasive questions. It doesn’t feel like an interview, but I know that it is. They’re sizing me up, trying to decide if I’m good enough for their son. While simultaneously trying to find out if I’m some kind of gold digger.

I don’t blame them. Not in the slightest. I have a feeling that it’s hard to find genuine people when you’re as famous as Margot and Whitaker Sullivan.

“So tell us, Stassia. What is it you do?” Margot asks placing some steamed vegetables on her plate.

Clearing my throat, I jump when Whitaker’s hand wraps around the top of my thigh. “Until recently I was a principal dancer for the ballet,” I blush.

Margot’s eyes widen, and then her face breaks out into a huge smile. “Really? Oh that is lovely. Tell me is that where you met, Whit darling?”

My mouth goes dry. I should have thought of this question. I knew it was coming. I open my mouth to speak, even though I have no idea what I’m going to say. Whitaker breaks his silence, and speaks before me.

“I went to the ballet with Sterling and Tilly. She was on stage. She mesmerized me. I reached out, and the rest is history,” he shrugs.

“But you’re not dancing anymore?” Kenneth asks arching a brow.

Gulping, I open my mouth again to speak when Whitaker beats me to it, again. “I’ve asked her to retire. With the new film I would like Stassi to travel with me. It’s hard to build a relationship with the grueling hours and demand of the company, plus a movie.”

I inhale deeply, my hand finding his on my thigh and I squeeze his fingers. When neither Kenneth or Margot say anything, I lift my gaze to them. They’re both smiling, but they seem almost, speechless.

The rest of dinner is filled with conversation of both Whitaker and Margot’s movies. I don’t have much to add, so I stay quiet and lost inside of my own head. This is not the world for me, I don’t know what I’m doing here.

Movies, premiere’s, actresses, actors. My father sold me as a sexual slave for goodness sakes. He raised me for one purpose and one purpose only, to generate a large amount of income—and he did. I have no doubt that he sold me to Whitaker for millions of dollars.

Once our dinner is consumed, Kenneth and Whitaker make their way out of the room and into Whitaker’s office. Whitaker claims he has some paperwork to go over with his dad, unfortunately that means that I’m left alone with Margot.

“You love him, I can see it,” she says softly.

Lifting my gaze to hers, I let out a sigh and I nod. “I do,” I say, giving her the truth.

I haven’t told him yet, and I may never, but I do. I love him. I wasn’t supposed to, not ever. He is supposed to be this horrible person who bought me, and yet, he’s not horrible at all—he’s wonderful.