Page 36 of Sexted By a Stranger

Eva

"So, which fat-faced producer wants you in his hotel room tonight to 'discuss the script in depth'?"

Ivanka's words cut through my carefully maintained professional smile like a blade.

I set down a my cocktail in front of her with more force than necessary, the crystal glass meeting the marble table with a sharp clink. Using the excuse of grabbing a coaster from behind the bar, I turned away and rolled my eyes—a small compensation for my thoroughly battered self-esteem.

"Watch your language, Ivanka," I said under my breath, "He called it 'exploring the character's inner tension and the possibilities of artistic dedication.'"

"Bullshit!" She spat, then took a sip from her glass. The expression on her face—that I've-seen-it-all look—made her seem more worldly than any of the thirty-year Scotch-sipping regulars in this club.

Only I knew better.

Ivanka Morgan was my only friend in LA, this concrete jungle.

We'd met on a TV show set where I played an extra who got gunned down in less than five seconds of screen time.

Even so, during the countless takes caused by the lead forgetting her lines, I'd creatively choreographed three different death poses for myself.

It was that kind of obsessive attention to detail—even when nobody was watching—that caught Ivanka's eye.

She was playing the third female lead at the time.

After filming wrapped, she walked over to me with those mesmerizing blue eyes and said, "Hey, you died with real layers to it."

We'd been tight ever since.

She was the kind of girl who could wear the latest Chanel suit and sit with me on a street corner, wolfing down four-dollar hot dogs like we were starving college kids.

"If I don't land a decent role soon, I'll have to go home and inherit my dad's little diamond mining operation outside Moscow"—she'd made this joke at least eight hundred times in front of me.

But me, Eva Stone? I had no family business to fall back on.

Days, I ran around to different film sets playing background characters. Nights, I waited tables at the exclusive private club, Platinum Plus. My world consisted of a run-down apartment on Oak Street and a dream of acting that seemed so distant it was almost laughable.

I was from Montgomery, Alabama—a place that had nothing going for it except some civil rights history they taught in textbooks.

Dad died of an illness when I was little, leaving Mom and me to fend for ourselves.

It was Mom, working day and night at her sewing machine for pennies, who supported my move to LA to chase this crazy dream.

This job at Platinum Plus? Ivanka had hooked me up.

In her words: "A family owns it. Totally safe. Nobody dares mess around in there."

And she was right. The place was a microcosm of LA's power structure—clients who were either loaded or influential, all following some unspoken code of conduct. None of them bothered us invisible waitstaff.

Still, the air thick with cologne, premium cigars, and the scent of money reminded me constantly that I was just an intruder. Working here was like being a deep-sea diver—holding my breath, diving into the depths, just trying to grab enough sea urchins to survive.

"Seriously though, you've changed so much.

When you first got to LA," Ivanka set down her glass and studied me with those penetrating eyes.

"Back then, you were this wildcat, ready to try anything.

I remember one audition where you actually asked the director for more lines—shocked the hell out of everyone else there.

And you used to wander around the city, collecting life stories and love stories from every corner, building up this whole arsenal of material for your acting.

What happened to that girl? When's the last time you went anywhere besides Platinum Plus and film sets? "

I tugged uncomfortably at my uniform collar. "People change. I'm just adapting to reality."

Living in LA, even the air costs money. I didn't have time for self-discovery anymore.

"Reality?" Ivanka shook her head. "I think you're running scared. You've locked yourself in a cage."

Deep down, I knew Ivanka was right.

That passionate, adventure-seeking version of me hadn't disappeared—I'd just buried her under layers of survival instinct. Chasing this dream had drained every ounce of my energy. I told myself to accept mediocrity, but that wild part of my soul had never really gone quiet.

It was stirring in the darkness, waiting for the right moment, waiting for a chance to break free.

"Enough about me," I said, forcing the conversation in a different direction. "What about you, my little movie star? Land any roles that'll actually let you show off those acting chops?"

"Some eye candy who stands next to the male lead, smiling and screaming on cue," she said with an exaggerated sigh.

Then she leaned in closer, her voice dropping to something more serious.

"But for real, Eva—you can't keep going like this.

You're the most naturally gifted actress I've ever seen.

There's fire in your eyes! That fire shouldn't be wasted on roles with three lines or less, and it sure as hell shouldn't be violated by those sleazebags and their greasy stares. "

Her words were warm and cutting at the same time, peeling away the hard, cold shell I'd built around myself.

The humiliation and defeat I'd faced in audition rooms came flooding back like a tide.

It was a cramped, windowless casting office that reeked of cheap coffee and stale sweat. Assistant director Marty—a middle-aged guy with a beer gut—leaned back in his squeaky chair, letting his murky eyes crawl all over my body like he was sizing up meat at a market.

"Eva," he said, leaning forward to close the distance between us. I could see a piece of food stuck between his front teeth. "You're a smart girl. You should know that sometimes, opportunities require a little... personal initiative."

His voice was slimy, his gaze predatory. In that moment, I felt less like I was auditioning for a role and more like I was being auctioned off. I practically jumped out of my chair, plastering on my most polite smile as I said, "I don't think I'm right for this part. Thank you for your time."

Then, while he sat there looking stunned, I bolted from that nauseating room. Outside the building, the cold wind hit my face, and I realized my hands had been shaking the whole time. I didn't cry—just felt this bone-deep exhaustion and disgust.

That greasy stare, that tone of voice—it felt like it was still clinging to my skin, impossible to wash off.

"Good opportunities will come," I said.

Even I knew it sounded like empty self-consolation.

The mood turned heavy for a moment.

Just as Ivanka opened her mouth to say something else, my breathing—along with my heartbeat—got hijacked by a figure in the doorway.

A man walked in.

His entrance made the entire noisy club feel like someone had hit the mute button.

He looked to be pushing forty, wearing an impeccably tailored charcoal-gray custom suit that hugged his tall, lean frame.

His body had the kind of strength that came from years of discipline—broad shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist, creating a perfect inverted triangle.

He moved with measured confidence, each step deliberate, radiating an invisible pressure that swept through the entire hall like a tsunami.

I couldn't tear my eyes away from him.

His face was carved like a sculpture, all sharp angles and defined lines.

Brown hair slicked back perfectly, revealing a smooth, broad forehead and razor-sharp brow bones.

The lighting cast subtle shadows across his features, making them appear even more three-dimensional and severe.

His lips were thin, pressed together in a hard line that suggested absolute control.

He wasn't smiling. Hell, there wasn't any unnecessary expression on his face at all.

Those bottomless blue eyes surveyed the room with a gaze that was calculating, cold, and utterly commanding.

In that moment, I felt like he'd stolen my ability to breathe.

It was the kind of primal response that came from deep biological instinct—half terror, half fatal attraction.

I'd seen plenty of good-looking men, especially in an industry where appearance was currency. But nobody had ever affected me like this—just one sweeping glance and I felt like a rabbit caught in an eagle's sights. I knew with crystal clarity that this man was dangerous as hell.

Two bodyguards in black suits followed behind him, but his own commanding presence made those intimidating men look like mere accessories. He didn't linger in the main hall, heading straight for the elevator that led to the private second-floor areas.

Jesus! In the few seconds he passed near me, I could actually smell his scent—a mixture of whiskey and winter pine that was sharp and intoxicating.

It wasn't until his silhouette completely disappeared around the stairwell corner that I snapped back to reality, letting out the breath I'd been holding.

"Back to earth, gal?"

I turned to find Ivanka's blue eyes sparkling with mischief and amusement.

My cheeks felt warm against my will. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, trying to play it cool despite my irregular heartbeat. "Don't tease me. You've seen every kind of gorgeous guy there is—you wouldn't understand us regular people getting starstruck by serious eye candy."

"Oh, honey, he's no ordinary piece of eye candy." Something complex flickered across Ivanka's face—something strange, mixed with both reverence and familiarity. She shook her head quickly, like she didn't want to continue down this path. Then she pulled out her phone with practiced efficiency.