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Everyone knew who I was back then. They’d just stopped caring that I was on a slow slide into oblivion.
I kept the case just like he said, usually filled with cigarettes, sometimes with a little candy. It sat empty while I was in rehab, then full now that I’d given up everything except this nasty little smoking habit.
Pulling one of the cigarettes out, I lit it, and Amanza gave me a dark look. “We don’t allow smoking in the building.”
I took three long drags before smudging it out on the lid and snapping it shut. “You have a vape on your desk.”
She picked it up and shoved it into her drawer. “Mr. King—” She gave me a bland smile. “—we’re excited to have you in this role, but we wanted to discuss some stipulations we, as a studio, have agreed to in order to secure the rights to the prince’s memoir.”
Ah, yes. See, this really was my Oscar moment—so to speak. Or Emmy, I guess, since it was a sixteen-episode arc split into two seasons with the potential for a third or a spin-off if Prince Camillo agreed to some of his unpublished life being used for material.
Prince Camillo’s early life was wild, which was why anyone gave a crap about modern royals these days. He was the reason paparazzi laws had changed fifteen years ago. While I was on a drug-induced public meltdown, Camillo was in an eight-day coma, waking up without the use of his body from the ribs down after his driver spun out trying to dodge a bunch of SUVs with cameras.
His town car hadn’t stood a chance when it smashed sideways into the support beam of King’s Bridge. Camillo had been thrown from the car, and a bystander who was attempting to be helpful dragged him across the pavement and sealed his spine’s fate that day.
I knew all of this because I read his Wiki six times before the audition. The role was intense, emotional, meaty. It was a chance to show my skill, to flex my acting muscles that were only slightly atrophied.
I could do this. Ihadto do this. I could bring pain, emotion, and drama into every word. And I would win fucking awards, damn it. The world would be forced to see who I was now and not the boy who had tried to ruin himself so badly that no one else would ever want to touch him again.
I was healing.
I was better.
Mostly.
But I didn’t like the way she said stipulations. Those usually meant rules. Restrictions. Instructions on how to do my job, which I was not about to stand for.
“So? What are they?” I reached for another cigarette and stopped when she cleared her throat.
“The rights were sold without the prince’s direct consent. It was all legal, of course, but in order to avoid a lawsuit that would keep us tied up in court for years, we’ve agreed to allow him to dictate a few…requirements.”
I blinked at her.
“His original request was that a disabled person play his role.”
I bristled. “I’m fully qualified to take on this role. Iauditioned. I?—”
“You’re not being asked to give up the role,” she said blandly. I shut my mouth, knowing I was on the verge of a toddler tantrum, and that was not going to help my cause in proving I was a mature, fully recovered adult capable of doing his job.
But the truth was, the idea of losing this terrified me. This was my shot. I felt it in my gut. If I lost this, it would be over. I might as well find my way to a university and become an accountant or some shit because I wasn’t good at anything else, and I had zero passion for anything but putting on a costume and getting to be anyone but myself until the director yelled, “Cut!”
“The role, however, does require a coach.”
I blinked at her. “I don’t need a coach.”
“Mm.” She tapped her nails on the desk, which made me want to hurl myself out the window. I hated that little tippy-tap sound with every fiber of my being. My first therapist after mybreakdown used to do that. Hearing that sound made me think of the smell of the hospital, and the feeling of those grippy socks, and the pinch of an IV because I had refused to eat, drink, or take my meds for weeks.
“I’ve been doing this a long time. And I know I’ve been out of the game for a few years, but?—”
“The role requires a coach because it’s based on a real person’s life experience. While I trust your acting abilities, unless you’ve had experience as a wheelchair user, then I can’t see any shame in having someone who is help you make the role more realistic.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. I could feel my agent’s tension in the room. It was filling up all the empty spaces. Chaz was on edge, waiting for me to lose it. Probably waiting for the moment he could fire me with just cause.
“I’ve read his Wikipedia about fifteen times,” I finally said. “I watched the biopic they did on the family a few years ago. I’ve seen every interview he’s ever done, read every article he’s ever been so much as quoted in. Iknowhim.”
“And yet, this was his stipulation,” she answered me.
I glanced over at Chaz, who lifted a brow. “This is the best-case scenario.”