5 Years Later
[ 1 ]
ROSE CALLOWAY
You know the stories where the strong, brawny man struts into a room with his head high, his chest puffed, and his stocky shoulders pulled back—he’s the king of the jungle, the big man on campus, the one who quivers girls’ knees. He carries an air of unwarranted superiority for the pure fact that he has a dick, and he knows it. He expects the girl to go tongue-tied and agree to his every demand.
Well, I am living that story right now.
The man settles into a seat at the head of the conference table （instead of the chair nearest me） and just stares in my direction.
Maybe he thinks I’m going to be that stupefied girl. That I will cower beneath his deep grey eyes and his combed dishwater blond hair. He’s twenty-eight, stained with Hollywood elitism and self-righteousness. When I first talked to him, he name dropped actors and producers and directors, waiting for me to go slack-jawed and dopey. “I know so-and-so. I did a project with what’s-his-face.”
My boyfriend had to grab the phone out of my hand before I cursed at the Hollywood exec for irritating the shit out of me. There are certain people that just crawl underneath my skin, and I have a nasty habit of speaking my mind, even if my thoughts aren’t the kindest ones.
He finally speaks. “Do you have the contracts?” His chair screeches as he leans back.
I pull out the stack of papers from my handbag.
“Bring them here.” He motions to me with two fingers.
“You could have sat beside me,” I retort, standing on two chunky heels with brass buttons, military-inspired and part of the new Calloway Couture collection.
“But I didn’t,” he says easily. “Come here.”
My heels clink across the hardwood, and I make the perilous catwalk up to Scott Van Wright.
He props one ankle on his thigh, his finger to his cheek as he unabashedly peruses my body. From my slender legs, to the hem of my black pleated dress with sheer quarter-sleeves, and to the high collar that frames my stiff neck. He traces my dark-glossed lips, my rose-blushed cheeks, and bypasses right over my pissed-off eyes, spending an extra moment fixated on my chest.
I stop by his legs and throw the contracts on the table in front of him. They slide off the polished surface and land on his lap. One stapled stack even slips to the floor. I smile wide since he has to bend down awkwardly to reach them.
“Pick that up,” he tells me.
My smile fades. “It’s underneath the desk.”
He cocks his head, giving me another long once-over. “And you dropped it.”
He cannot be serious. I cross my arms, not responding to his request. He just sits there, waiting for me to comply.
This is a test.
I’m used to them. Sometimes I even dole them out myself, but this one is going to lead me nowhere good.
If I bend down, he’ll establish this strange power over me. He’ll be able to command me in the same way that Connor Cobalt can force people to do his bidding with simple words.
It’s a manipulator’s gift.
I’m not even close to possessing it. I think I wear my emotions too much to have that type of influence over other people.
“Grab it,” he says, his gaze halting on my breasts again.
I remind myself why I need Scott and why I want the swarm of cameras to document my every move. I inhale. Okay. You have to do it, Rose. Whatever it takes. I cringe and drop to my knees. In a dress. This is a job for a personal assistant, not a client.
I hear him click his pen as I scoop up the papers. I’m not wearing a low-cut top where I’ll flash him. I don’t have huge breasts to really ogle either. The most he can do is slap my ass and try to peek up my dress, the hem perilously rising on my thighs.
When I stand back up and smack the papers to the table, his lips curve upward.
Scott Van Wright （asshole） 1 – Rose Calloway （pathetic） 0.
I sit in the nearest chair while Scott stuffs the contracts in his briefcase.
My boyfriend urged me to bring his lawyer to the meeting, but I didn’t want Scott to think that I couldn’t handle the situation myself. I won’t have a lawyer while the cameras follow me, and I’d rather take command now.
Not that I’m doing a terrific job.
If I ordered Scott to do anything, he’d laugh at me. But I attended a few law courses before I graduated from Princeton. I know my rights.
“Just so we have this clear, you work for me,” I remind him. “I hired you to produce the show.”
“That’s cute. But after you signed that contract, you’ve officially become my employee. You’re the equivalent of an actress, Rose.”