Page 203 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

Solene

I run my hands down my dress. Why are my palms damp?

And why does my stomach feel like I swallowed a massive rock?

I don’t need to be nervous. If there’s one thing in the world I can do, it’s sing.

So why does it feel like I’m going to be sick?

My stomach heaves. Bile laces my throat.

I race to the bathroom, drop to my knees and bend over the toilet bowl.

The scant contents of the dinner I ate last night spurts out.

Gross! I reach up, flush away the remains, then grab some of the toilet paper, wipe off the seat and flush that away as well.

By the time I collapse against the wall of the bathroom, I’m trembling.

Last night, after I made a fool of myself by trying to seduce Declan and failing—oh, except for being caught by that paparazzo on camera, the photos of which I haven’t yet seen on social media, thanks to not having a phone—I marched to my room and shut myself up there.

I refused to come out for dinner, and when I finally peeked out my door, I found a tray of food left outside for me by of the staff.

I haven’t seen them around, but I'm sure he has an army of helpers all trained to do their work and keep out of sight.

I ate the sandwich, drank the milk, then, surprisingly, fell asleep. I woke up to banging on the door and Declan telling me to get ready for an audition; and with a leading talent manager, no less.

Sweat beads my brow. I lock my fingers together and bring my knees up closer to my body.

Maybe I shouldn’t do this. Maybe I was a fool to think I could go after my dream.

What was I thinking? Everything I’ve lived so far has taught me to keep my head down, to not draw attention to myself.

And while I’d tried to keep that flame of rebellion burning inside of me, my mother's and brother’s indoctrination must have snuck in under my skin anyway.

Right now, I feel like the biggest fraud in the world.

Trying out to be a singer? Leaving home to come with a man I barely know to the talent capital of the world in my attempt to pursue my childhood ambition?

I must have been smokin’ something. Only I hadn’t.

I was flying high on reconnecting with the man of my dreams, on knowing I didn’t have to marry a man I knew my sister was in love with.

I felt like I could throw off the shackles of my past and forge forward…

Into nervousness and anxiety and imposter syndrome.

I squeeze my eyes shut and lean my head back against the wall.

Oh, my god. Maybe I should have refused to go.

Why did I think I could accomplish this? I can’t. I can’t. I—

There’s a knock on the bathroom door. "Solene, it’s getting late," Declan calls out.

I bury my head in my hands. No, no, I’m not ready. I’m not.

"Solene?" He bangs on the door with a little more force. "We have to leave in the next five minutes to get there on time."

I bite the inside of my cheek.

There’s silence, then, "Solene, are you okay?"

No, I’m not. Not that it’s any of your problem.

It’s your fault I’m in this position. If you hadn’t extended the invitation for me to come to LA, none of this would have happened.

It’s your fault, asshat. At least, my knowledge of words didn’t suffer as a result of my strict upbringing within the Mafia.

Turns out, Mafia women have potty mouths and colorful vocabularies they aren’t above using when they're cooking and away from the menfolk. And I'm a good listener. And an even faster learner. Except when it came to realizing that I am absolute shit at singing in front of others. A bit late to realize that, isn’t it? After you’ve upended your entire life to pursue it?

"Solene, open up." Declan bangs on the door again. "Solene. Open. The. Door. Now." He lowers his voice to a hush and the force of his personality shudders through the space. There’s something strident, something so demanding in his tone that I automatically rise to my feet. I walk to the door, unlock it, and he pushes it open. His big frame fills the doorway. His shoulders are bunched, his jaw set so hard, he’s probably already cracked a molar. His nostrils are flared, and his hair is tousled like he’s run his fingers through it. He glares at me; I tip up my chin.

"The fuck is wrong with you?" he growls.

I firm my lips. "The fuck is wrong you?" I yell, then slam my hands into his chest. Stronzo’s bigger and stronger than I remember, and I haven’t grown a centimeter since I reached my five-foot-four-inch height at seventeen, but I must take him by surprise, for he stumbles back a little.

I brush past him and am almost free when he grabs my arm and swings me around to face him.

I lower my head, so my hair falls over my features.

Not that it makes a difference. He pinches my chin and applies enough pressure that I have to tilt up my face.

I glance away to avoid meeting his eyes.

"Have you been crying?" he demands.

"What’s it to you?"

"Have you, Rabbit?"

I wince. "I wish you wouldn’t call me by that nickname."

"You resemble a very uncertain rabbit right now, one trying to hide from the world by locking yourself up in the bathroom and feeling sorry for yourself."

I brush the wetness from my face. "I’m not feeling sorry for myself."

"Hmph." I sense him continuing to appraise my features. "Want to talk about it?"

"Want to let go of my chin?"

"You first." His grip on my chin is unyielding. The angles of his body settle into a pattern that tell me he intends to wait me out.

"We’re going to be late," I point out.

"Our appointment can wait."

I swivel my gaze in his direction, and at once, those hypnotic blue eyes snap on mine.

Mistake, mistake. Now I won’t have a choice but to tell him about my fears.

When he looks at me with his all-seeing eyes, I can never hide anything from him.

"That’s a very influential person you’re talking about," I say softly.

"Don’t change the topic, Rabbit."

I blow out a breath. "I’m nervous, okay? I’ve never sung in front of an audience before."

"Eh?" He seems taken aback. "When I saw you on the beach, you were singing aloud."

"To myself, with the waves for company, not to mention those jerk faces who decided it would be fun to jump me."

"And me," he reminds me.

"A-n-d you," I agree.

"Do you want me to tell you again how fresh and different your voice is? Is that what this is about? If you’re looking for an ego-boost..."

"I’m not, you douchebag. I’m simply telling you why I’m out of sorts. I’ve only sung in front of my family or in the shower before this.”

“In the shower?” His eyebrows knit.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “My family forbid me to sing in front of strangers, so yeah, the only way to get practice was to sing in front of them or when I was alone, and I much preferred to do so when I was on my own.”

“So?”

“So?” I slap my palms on my hips. “So, this will be my first audition, you pezzo di—"

He glares at me, and I slap my lips together. Fine, maybe that particular insult in Italian is a step too far, but he deserves it. He holds my gaze for a second longer then nods. "Fine then, let’s practice before we leave." He releases my chin, but I’m too shocked to move.

"Eh, wh-what do you mean?"

"You’re nervous. You think you haven’t practiced enough. You’re not sure how you’re going to sound, so go on, sing."

He steps back, leans a hip against the wall and says, "Go on, then."

"Piss off," I snap.

"For a sheltered Mafia princess, you sure have a colorful vocabulary."

"If you only knew." I toss my hair over my shoulders. "And I’ll be damned if I’m going to sing for you here."

"Either you sing for me here and get practice, or we head over to our appointment, and you can sing for the leading talent manager in the business."