Page 80 of Dream On

“Bullshit.”

“One date, and then what?” I counter, extending my arms at my sides. “Are you going to publicly apologize for making a mockery of me and my life for millions of viewers to dissect?”

“Apologize?” A muscle in his jaw flickers. “It was only loosely based on the truth, and I never painted your character in a bad light.”

“You told the world I was poor. You wrote my dad as a bumbling oaf.”

“You said he was a big dork.”

“You made me a belly dancer!”

“So?” He huffs. “Belly dancing is a legitimate and respected art form.”

“That’s not the point,” I grind out. “You embellished things. You neverreached out to ask for my permission. You knew acting was my dream, Lex—youknewthat—and you left me out of it. You wove a fairy tale of us falling madly in love, when in reality, you were disgusted by the thought of even kissing me.”

“I did kiss you.”

“While you wereacting. That wasn’t real.”

“That was…” His voice softens, trailing off into thoughts unsaid. Regrouping, Lex presses his hands together like a plea. “Listen, I’m sorry for hurting your feelings. Is that what you want to hear?”

I look away, biting my lip.

“Maybe I could have reached out, but nothing I did was ever a ploy to hurt you, and there are things you don’t understand, things you’ll never—”

“Then tell me. Right now.” I shove a finger at the floor. “Explain to me these things you claim I can’t understand, the things that have kept me up at night, thinking I was someone you could use up and discard like a crumpled script, tossed aside after the curtain closes.”

A crease pinches between his eyes. “Stevie…”

I wait for more. I wait for him to explain all the things that don’t make sense. But if that was some sort of apology or explanation, it begins and ends with my name.

Tears leak from the corners of my eyes, and Lex’s attention dips to the warm rivers sliding down my cheeks. He frowns, almost like emotion is a foreign concept to him. An oddity.

I swipe them away, erasing the evidence of my wounded heart, and he blinks back up, inhaling a frazzled breath.

“One night,” he repeats, rerouting the conversation back to the point. And the point is not my pain. “You’ll be spoiled. Catered to. Primped and styled by industry professionals. The best. A limo will pick you up for a late Friday flight, and you’ll be back by Sunday afternoon. I’ll introduce you as my date for the evening, my inspiration for the show. I’ll treat you like a fucking queen, and then you’ll go home, and you’ll never have to think of me again.”

Reluctantly, I consider it.

I imagine it playing out, just as he says.

Maybe Joplin and Misty are right. Maybe I’m allowed to be selfish for once. To take something for me, for me alone, and use it to my own advantage. This is an open door. One I can slam shut or walk right through. And that passageway is looking more tempting the longer I stand here, drinking in his self-serving spiel.

Because that’s what this is—another opportunity for Lexington Hall to make headlines and capture audiences around the world with a manufactured lie.

Lex doesn’t deserve my acquiescence.

But I do.

“Fine,” I say, voice hitching, loath to even say the word. “I’ll do it.”

His head jerks back a fraction. “Yeah?”

“What weekend is it?”

“September seventh.”

Nodding, I swipe my sweaty palms down the length of my skirt. “Okay. Have your agent send me the details, and I’ll be there.”