Page 4 of Stolen Voices

two

Callie

Istepofftheelevator, and I can smell the devil before I can see her.

My manager. Silla Treymonde. The wolf in designer sheep’s clothing.

With a deep breath in and shoulders back, I paste on a bright smile before walking into the reception area, where I know she’s waiting for me. My steps freeze at the sight of her.

Barf. Why is she lying on the couch like she’s at home?

There she is, sprawled across the sleek white couch in the reception area, phone in her hand, in a pose she no doubt thinks is sexy. She looks as desperate for attention as ever.

I take a few more steps in the waiting area, and Silla’s head snaps up at the click of my heels on the concrete floors. If her unnaturally botoxed face could move, her forehead would wrinkle as her shrewd eyes take in my outfit. My non-sanctioned outfit. In a blink, her face transforms from angry to sickly sweet. She leaps off the couch and rushes towards me with her arms wide.

“Darling,” Silla croons.

I fight a shiver as her nasal voice grates on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard.

“Silla,” I murmur, pushing her away, but she wraps her arms around my shoulders and pulls me in for those “half hug, half air kiss” things she thinks are so European and chic.

She uses the friendly rouse to hiss in my ear, “We agreed you would wear the blue dress.”

“Sorry. Ran out of time to change before the meeting. I didn’t want to be late,” I lie.

I deliberately ignored the outfit she had laid out for me. When I left for my monthly visit to Malibu this morning, I dressed for both meetings. I knew damn well that I would never make it back in time to change outfits for my appointment with the Blaze representatives.

Wearing a twelve-thousand-dollar designer dress that is way too short and revealing for a meeting with new management is not how I want to present myself. It’s bad enough that the town thinks I’m a spoiled little diva with outrageous demands. I’ve heard the rumors.

If only everyone knew the truth.

Besides, the wide-legged lavender jumpsuit with cap sleeves I chose is sweet and fun. It’s cut perfectly and hits my waist just right, accentuating my newfound curves in a sleek and sophisticated way.

I might pay for my little act of defiance later, but it had to be done. I need these people to see me as the woman I’ve become, not Callie Wright, the teen sensation and brand.

“Don’t do it again. Or are you forgetting who’s in charge?” With a wicked smile, Silla leans back, gripping my forearms with her fake, pointy talons, which pierce my skin and almost draw blood.

A throat clears behind us, and Silla drops her hold. She throws her head back with a laugh—her phony attempt to act like we are in the middle of some funny conversation. Her fabricated, sweet façade is all for show. She’s rotten to the core.

The feeling of being watched has the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. I step back, putting space between me and Silla, and search for the source of my unease. I fight a shudder as the feeling of being watched overwhelms me and glance around the room one more time.

Aside from the impeccably dressed man holding a manilla folder, there’s no one around and nothing stands out as I take in the simple reception area for the first time. It’s a giant glass bowl. Distressed wood, iron, and glass give the inside of the building an industrial feel. The white couches and the few pops of indigo around the room make the space feel modern.

The sight of the purple shade has a smile pulling at my lips.

A sign.

I knew taking the meeting with Hudson Campbell and his partner, Eli Miller, was a smart move. They’ve been making a name for themselves in both the music and movie industry.

I looked into them myself, and while I think they could probably be movie stars themselves—because they are that good-looking—the word on the street is they are decent guys. Multiple sources I’ve discreetly chatted with have told me the two really care about their clients and are very hands on. I’ve also heard they are sharks when negotiating contracts. That’s what I need: sharks.

“Ms. Wright?” My head snaps toward the raspy voice. The man who witnessed Silla’s little slip stares are me with concern. He’s dressed in a sleek, stone-gray suit and a matching tie, with shiny black shoes and blond hair coiffed to perfection. He’s average height, but damn, he’s hot.

“That’s me.” I give him a little wave.

Did I seriously just wave at him like an idiot?Of course, he knows who I am. Everyone in America knows who I am.

The man’s face softens, and his soft-pink lips twitch as he fights a smile. His kind blue eyes sparkle as he says, “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Desmond, but you can call me Dez. I’m Mr. Miller’s assistant and a huge fan. He and Mr. Campbell are ready for you. If you will, please follow me.”