I Googled him. The guy is richer than Midas and more corrupt than Judas. In his early fifties with small, pale blue eyes and a low furrowed brow, Vlad looks like a retired bodybuilder: tall with bulging muscles, broad shoulders, and narrow waist. His hands are like meat cleavers—blunt and big. There are lots of pictures of him at galas, and he looks terrible in a suit—all bunched up and forced into it.
What was I going to do to him?
"You okay?" Julian asks, leaning over me. I turn to him. The skin around his blue eyes is wrinkled with concern.
"Yeah." I nod.
He glances down at my hands, and I follow his gaze; they are gripping each other as if one is trying to pull the other up from a cliff. I consciously unclasp them and give him a smile. "I'm just tired."
Julian nods, his hair flopping forward. He's growing it out for his next role—it looks roguish and handsome. I’ve avoided any more dates with him—I can’t start a relationship while living a double life. Things are complicated enough.
Julian hasn’t pushed, though he continues to show me attention and find ways to touch me that I can’t seem to hate. “I get that," Julian says with a sigh. "These things are murder."
I swallow and force a smile.Holy crap, what if I'm slipping Vlad poison?Not just something to knock him out but something to actually kill him.
Julian's gaze narrows. "You're pale. Are you sure you're okay?”
I nod, my throat too tight to respond. He reaches over and takes my hand in his, warming it. "You're doing great. The press is loving you. The paparazzi are obsessed. Angela—" He leans even closer. "You've made it. You're a real star."
His words unlock my throat and lift me up. It's what I've been fighting for.It's my dream.So many people dream of this level of success, and I’ve achieved it.
But at what cost?
The hotel is opulent,beyond any of the other amazing places we've stayed on this junket. In the morning we have press meetings for four hours. By lunch time I'm exhausted, and my throat is sore. One of the PAs brings me a warm tea with honey. "Thanks, Sandra,” I say. She smiles. In her early forties, with blonde, gray-streaked hair, she has worked as a PA for almost twenty years.
"Never wanted to be an actor," she told me while we were in Hong Kong. "I like keeping things organized. Gives me a thrill." Her words punctuated by a throaty laugh that was absorbed into the luxury of the car we were riding in.
"These things can be killer on your throat,” Sandra says. I nod and sip the sweet elixir she brought me. "I'll take you to your lunch appointment—you've got the ChinaVogueinterview." My shoulders slump at the reminder that my day issonot over yet. But I pull them back quickly. This is what I want. The more press the better.
The reporter for ShanghaiVogueis a young Chinese man wearing 1950s prison-issue style glasses, a narrow black tie over a white button down shirt, and shiny black pants. "Angela Daniels," he says, his cheeks rushing with color as he extends his hand. "I'm Sing Chin.”
"Sorry I'm late," I say, knowing he's been waiting for at least thirty minutes. "Traffic on the way over was terrible."
"Don't worry about it." He has a slight accent but sounds like he has spent some time in America.
We take our seats at a table draped in white linen, and a waiter hurries over to fill my water glass. We are in the lobby restaurant of a hotel, about as fancy as the one I’m staying at. I glance out the plate glass windows to the busy street.I want to get out there and explore.The waiter leaves me with the menu, and I glance at it. Sing is setting up a recorder, and I suppress a sigh.
"So, Angela," Sing starts, like every other freaking reporter on the darn trail. "Thanks for taking the time to meet with me."
"Thank you for being interested in me," I say with a self-deprecating laugh.
"Well," he smiles. "You are blowing up right now."
I glance down at myself and grin at him. "Hey, I know I have not been in training as often, but I think I'm doing okay." He looks confused, and I lean across the table toward him. "Are you saying I should order a salad?”
He goes pale. "Oh no—"
"I'm just messing with you, Sing. I hear what you're saying. It's just hard to believe sometimes. Dreams this big don't usually come true."
He visibly relaxes, but the color in his cheeks may be permanent. "You're surprised by your fame?”
"I think anyone who reaches this level is surprised by it, to a degree. Of course, we all wanted it. But really, Sing, how often do we get what we want in life?”
"What has surprised you about it most?"
"I'm not sure," I say, pursing my lips, pretending to think…even though I've answered this question several times over the last few weeks. "I'm not surprised by the lack of privacy. Because, of course, I knew that was a part of the price. But I'm surprised by exactly what it feels like."
"What do you mean?"