“I CAN’T TAKE MY eyes off you tonight.” Robert McCauley reaches across the table, his Rolex glinting in the candlelight, as he places his hand over mine. His phone dings, but he ignores it. “You’re stunning. Just radiant.”

“Thank you.” I reach for the diamond chandelier earring dangling from my left ear and offer a gracious smile.

Fortunately I was able to reach out to Robert this past week, apologize for whatever it was my crack-smoking roommate said, and convince him that I still wanted him to take me out. He was hesitant at first—which leads me to believe there might be more to the story than either of them are sharing—but I insisted we try this again and he finally agreed.

Earlier tonight, while Sutter was engaging in his post-work shower ritual, I packed my shoes and dress and makeup and Uber’d it to Gram’s house to get ready. I couldn’t afford to risk Sutter throwing another wrench in my plans.

Robert’s phone goes off a second time, and this time his mouth presses flat and he forces a breath through his nose. “I’m so sorry, Melrose. I should take this.”

Excusing himself, he leaves me alone at our romantic table-for-two and disappears into a hallway lined with indoor trees that leads to the restrooms. Ordinarily I’d be offended that a man would take a call during a date, but Robert is kind of a big deal in this town. He’s in-demand. Highly sought-after. People’s livelihoods and careers rest in his very hands. I’d be an ego-driven fool to take this personally.

I reach for my wine, finishing off the final sip, when he returns. His hand brushes my shoulder as he makes his way to his seat.

“I’m so sorry about that,” he says.

“No worries at all.” I place my empty chalice in front of my clean dessert plate. “Believe, me. I get it.”

Robert extends his hand across the table, covering my fingertips. “I love that about you.”

When our server comes by with the check, Robert wastes no time reaching for his black Amex. I can only guess what kind of damage we did tonight—multiple courses and a bottle of wine that probably cost more than most people make in a month.

“I’m going to make a phone call first thing in the morning,” he says, gray eyes crinkling in the corners. “Guillermo del Toro has a project that you’d be picture-perfect for. Gives me goosebumps just thinking about it.”

A rush of excitement floods my body.

He has no idea how long I’ve waited to hear words like that … and it’s more than a career shortcut … it’s a confirmation that I’ve got talent, that I’ve got that certain something and someone who’s seen it all … sees it in me.

Validation. That’s all it is.

Sweet, sweet validation.

Anyone who’s been in the industry long enough knows how rare it is to land an endorsement like that from someone like him.

Robert signs the check with a platinum-colored pen he retrieves from his inner jacket pocket, and we make our way to the valet stand. While we navigate through a sea of white table cloths, pale pink roses, and flickering tea lights, his hand never leaves the small of my back.

When his Maserati arrives, he waits for me to get in first before climbing into the driver’s seat. I’m not sure what comes after this. We’re dressed far too nicely to catch a movie, and Robert doesn’t seem like the bar fly type.

I like to think he spends his evenings in his quiet mansion in the hills, listening to jazz standards or studying classic films, maybe making phone calls to people who can make things happen in this industry, or hosting a few of his mastermind friends, dreaming up future projects.

Robert pulls into traffic, shifting his car into gear after gear as we speed through the streets of downtown L.A. under a canopy of palm trees, city lights, and twinkling stars. Tonight feels magical, otherworldly, in a way I can’t explain—like this was meant to happen just like this.

“Have you ever been to the Chateau Marmont?” he asks, one hand on the wheel as he weaves between two Range Rovers.

“Once. My grandmother hosted a dinner there a few years back.”

His car crawls to a stop at the next red light, and he glances my way, wearing a confident half-smile. “Thought we could head that way, maybe get a couple of drinks? I’m not ready for tonight to be over.”

My mouth twists up at the side and my heart flutters, but not in the way that would suggest I’m crushing hard on Robert. So far he’s simply a very nice (and very powerful) man who’s adorning me with attention and compliments and promises of a bright future. I’m not naïve and I know he’s telling me everything I could possibly want to hear tonight, but I’m not willing to walk away until I see where this is going.

There’s a chance Robert might be full of shit.

But there’s an equal chance he might be genuine.

The city is alive tonight, all its colors electric and vibrant. I crack the passenger window and let the warm breeze kiss my face.

“Do you ever get tired of the—” I begin to ask him a question, but I promptly lose my train of thought when I feel the warmth of his palm on my left thigh.

This is unexpected.

Robert glances my way, his fingers inching up, his hand sliding beneath the hem of my dress with bold casualness as the city lights flash and flicker across his face, almost contorting it.

Funny how beautiful those lights were a mere moment ago.

My heart hammers and my stomach knots. I’m paralyzed, contemplating how I’m going to handle this, but the seconds feel as if they’re moving twice as fast and my mind isn’t able to function at that speed with his hand on my inner thigh.

“What are you doing?” I manage to ask, my eyes dragging from my lap to his narrowed regard. Gone is his charming smile, and in its place is a determined leer.

I jerk my leg out from under his disgusting mitt but it’s not like I have much room to move. The inside of the car is tight and narrow and aerodynamic. Space between us isn’t exactly a thing.

“Come on.” He doesn’t care that I’m leaning away, that I’m making it clear that I’m not okay with this. His hand slides deeper between my thighs, but I dig my nails into his arm, peeling it off me, and then squeeze my knees together.

My eyes burn before watering, but I blink it all away. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s upset me. That would imply he’s got some kind of power over me, and bastards like him get off on that shit.

He reaches across the console yet again, but this time I slap his hand away.

“I want out. Let me out.” I reach for the door handle but we’re moving and the door is locked.

Robert’s car slams to a stop at the next light, and he almost rear-ends a red BMW. The seatbelt locks across my chest and I look to the door handle again. Scanning the outside, I envision what would happen if I bolted out of here, but the three lanes of bumper to bumper traffic separating us from the nearest sidewalk might make this difficult.

“You’re insanely gorgeous.” He reaches for my hand, peeling it off my lap and slipping his fingers through mine. “I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you, Melrose.”

And the way he says my name sends bile rising up the back of my throat.

“I told you,” he says, looking at me. Every time his eyes land on me, I feel cheaper than I did the time before. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you all night. You’re a work of art, Melrose, and you’re going places. But I’d like to see more of you.”

Pulling my hand across the center console, he places it on the outside of his suit pants, rubbing it along his stiff cock. The scratchy fabric covering his thick bulge is a feeling I’m never going to forget as long as I live.

I’m not a violent person but if ever there were a time …

I don’t think twice. I just do it. I squeeze. Hard.

The disgusting bulge of his package fills my palm and I clamp down, nails and all, crushing it as much as possible through his thick suit fabric.

Robert swerves, almost hitting a neon yellow Corvette. “You fucking bitch!”

“Pull over.” I stare ahead, though from the corner of my eye, I can tell he’s wincing and red-faced. His fingers grip the steering wheel until his knuckles glow white in the dark.

He laughs, like he doesn’t take me seriously. “What?”

“Pull over,” I say, teeth gritted. “I want out.”

This isn’t the greatest section of L.A., but there’s a twenty-four-hour CVS on the corner and I can wait there while I order an Uber.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffs. The CVS comes into view and then vanishes into the distance as he continues to drive. “I was just trying to show you how sexy you are. It’s a good thing. No need to get all sensitive about it.”

“Sensitive?” My jaw falls. “You were trying to slip your hand up my dress and then you forced me to touch your cock. Let me out, Robert. Now.”

His mouth presses into a flat line and he exhales before checking his rear-view mirror and pulling closer to the right side of the road.

I’ve gone on dates with plenty of older men before, but none of them have been as presumptive as this jackass. I should’ve known as thick as he was laying on the praise that this was his intention. Instead I was seduced by the hope he was feeding me, clinging to his every word like an idiot.

I hate, hate that Sutter was right about Robert.

“You know how this works, don’t you?” he asks when he pulls into a parking spot next to an Irish pub. “You’ve been around long enough now.”

“I’ve never slept with anyone for a part.”

“Maybe not yet … but you will someday.” His face is twisted, forehead wrinkled like he’s looking at a drowned rat and not a twenty-something blonde in a form-fitting black dress. “I could’ve changed your life, sweetheart…”

I roll my eyes at the thick condescension and blatant arrogance that certainly wasn’t in his tone earlier tonight.

“Good news is, there’s a lot more where you came from,” Robert says with a chuff. He unlocks the doors and I lunge for the handle, stepping out and breathing a sigh of relief when my heels land against hard concrete like anchors to dry land.

Slamming his car door, I tuck my clutch under my arm and walk as fast as I can to the pub and lose myself in the crowded darkness inside. For some insane reason, I feel safer in here, with all these strangers, than I do out there. They’re like a wall of protection, a barrier from what just happened. He can’t and he won’t follow me in here, not to a place like this. Men like Robert don’t set foot in places with sticky floors and stale cigarette smoke polluting the air.

I find a corner and take a moment to breathe and collect my composure. Pulling my phone from my purse, I order a ride home with trembling fingers as my mind attempts to blank out the last ten minutes of my life.

The house is dark when we pull up, but Sutter’s truck is parked out front. I’m surprised he’s not out painting the town on a Saturday evening or hosting a few of his buddies like he did the other night, but I’m relieved.

I don’t want to see anyone—and I don’t want anyone to see shame painted all over me. In one night, I’ve eaten crow, put my foot in my mouth, and bruised my ego.

Grabbing my key, I make my way up the cracked and pitted sidewalk toward the front porch. The flicker of the TV against the living room window tells me I’m going to see him the second I walk inside, but if I’m lucky, the house will be dark enough that he won’t see the way I look and won’t ask why I look like I’ve been fighting off tears for the past hour.

I check the door to find it isn’t locked, so I slide my key back in my purse and head inside. Kicking off my heels as soon as I step in, I swoop down and gather them in my arms, only when I rise, I steal a peek toward the living room and nearly choke on my spit when I see a topless girl grinding on Sutter’s lap, her hands in his hair and her breasts pressed against him.

She tries to kiss him, not realizing they’re not alone anymore, but he’s looking at me.

My mind is telling me to get the hell out of there, but my feet refuse to move.

The girl in his lap cups her hands on his cheek and giggles before whispering something into his ear, but his dead stare is laser focused in my direction—like he’s studying me. Frozen. Paralyzed.

“Oh my god!” The girl shrieks when she follows his stare and sees me standing by the front door.

“I’m … I’m sorry.” I shield my eyes and tuck my shoes and clutch beneath my arm before taking the stairs two at a time until I get to my room.

Dropping my things on the edge of the bed, I go to Murphy’s kennel and lower myself to my knees. He licks my hand through the cage door and I let him out. He paws at my chest until I scoop him up.

Screw the dog hair. I’m never wearing this thing again.

It’s tainted. Bad juju, as my mother would say.

Murphy whimpers, like he needs to go outside, but the only way to the backyard is through the living room.

“I’ll take you in a second, I promise,” I tell him, peeling out of the dress. On the way to the dresser to grab some pajamas, I steal a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Red cheeks. Mascara streaks. Puffy eyelids from all the pressure behind my eyes.

All that and I didn’t even cry that hard—I mostly fought the tears, refusing to let eighty percent of them fall. That’s the thing about being an actress—most of the time you’re in complete control of your emotions, but every once in a while, when they’re real and strong and you’ve had a couple of glasses of wine … you’re powerless against them.

Sliding on a pair of cotton shorts and a white tank top, I grab my phone and text Nick.

I need someone to make me smile, to take my mind off of what took place earlier, to remind me there are still good people in this world.