Page 47 of Bribed by the Billionaire Bad Boy

With me, he’s flighty and detached, all smiles and jokes. The moments when he becomes serious, he’s acting. Even tonight with Agatha, he wasn’t himself when he addressed her. The mere moments afterward were close to “serious,” but they fell away before I could even wrap my head around what had happened or what was happening.

Something’s off here. I will get to the bottom of it, and I will have my way.

Something is off. On so many levels. If she actually starts snooping around, she might discover that my relationship with Lex is abnormal, and if she goes so deep, she may find out the truth about the play.

What will she do with that information?

Agatha is the kind of person who aspires to be the best. Her desires to interpret Harriet andThe Magpie Girlare no doubt linked to the fact she perceives it as Mr. D’plume’s. If she finds out the truth, that it’s mine, it won’t take minutes for her to tear it to shreds.

Is there any possible way for her to discover that information?

I am so careful.

I never bring any of the music for it to school. Any original, unprinted material I keep here, at home. Only my laptop and Mr. D’plume’s have any information about my initial flub, and mine is password protected and never far. Unless she somehow knows to look into Mr. D’plume’s emails from last year, there is no way.

I spiral, my mind delving into every possible situation that could lead her to think there is a reason to hack into our professor’s computer, search for my name, and stalk the attachments from a year ago. Is it still safe for me to use the theater room in the mornings? Or will she stumble upon that space and create a deeper connection between us that could lead to trouble?

My stomach sours, and I freeze, staring at the marinating vegetables before me, drowning in too much soy sauce.

She’ll accuse him of bias audition night.

It isn’t above her to run off with that idea. What if she suspects we’reinvolved? What can she possibly do with that?

Hot and cold all at once, I try to focus on taking deep breaths, but each is filled with soy sauce saltiness that sticks in the back of my throat and makes me dizzy.

Agatha doesn’t stop. Agatha never stops. Until she has everything she wants, she doesn’t slow down or hesitate. She doesn’t care who she hurts or how.

The front door opens, shocking me out of the thoughts.

“Caly, I’m home,” Mom calls.

I release a breath and force myself to be normal. I am running away with every bad scenario. As if it’s possible for her to have any kind of proof that could hurt Mr. D’plume. For that kind of situation, all I have to do is deny it. I’m paranoid. Just paranoid. And I need to stop it.

“Something smells good.” Mom wanders into the kitchen, discovering dinner. “Mmm, stir fry? That’s good for a cold nightlike tonight.”

I smile, but it’s completely fake. “Yep. If my homework doesn’t take long, I might be convinced to turn those last brown bananas into little loaves too.”

Mom gasps, her eyes widening. “Homework? Since when do you have that?”

“Ha ha.” I nudge the vegetables around with my spatula, then take the rice off the stove to dump in the pan. “I got the edits back on an essay. I can’t exactly pre-write the final without the annotated draft.” Except I did try, and I hadn’t done a bad job. There were only a couple things my professor caught that I hadn’t already changed in my self-edit. So it looks like I’ll be making tiny loaves tonight.

“You’ve always been a great writer. I’m sure there’s not much to correct.” Mom opens the fridge to get a water bottle then slouches into her seat at our little table. “So more banana bread for me. The four you made disappeared rather quickly. I only got one, and I know you wanted to bring one to school today but…”

My heart thumps. “I brought one for my favorite teacher, too.”

“Your favorite teacher?” she asks, opening the bottle and taking a sip. “English?”

Clearing my throat, I lower the heat. “No. Theater. Actually.” My words are stilted, unnatural. I have to pull myself together. “His name is Mr. D’plume, and he—”

“You’re in theater?” Mom lowers her water bottle, watching me a little too lucidly for someone who’s been on her feet all day.

Crap. I’m so out of it I forgot that I’ve never told her about the fact I’m taking more than the staple classes. “It looked fun. You don’t have to go on stage. You can just learn about theory and sound booth stuff.”

Her brows knit. “You’d be great on stage.”

I laugh. “Mom, no.”

“You would.” She tosses back another gulp of water. “I remember watching you play little skits in middle school. You’re a natural.”