UNDER THE SPOTLIGHT Chapter 4

By the time the drinks party broke up, it was already ten. Mr. Dalton, reeking of booze, latched onto Sienna and insisted on seeing her home, his hand hovering to slide over her shoulder.

Sienna brushed him off with a few polite words and shot me a look.

I swallowed my nerves, stepped in, and steadied her. “Mr. Dalton, Sienna’s got an early call tomorrow. She needs to turn in.”

He cut me a glare sharp as a blade, grunted, and let go. “All right, kid. You do know how to read a room.”

That look sliced down my spine, cold sweat prickling my back.

Outside the restaurant, Sienna sank into the company car like an actress wiping off her makeup—deflated and bone-tired. She slipped off her heels and rubbed her ankle; her gown slid up to the top of her thigh, a flash of pale skin.

I couldn’t help asking, “Sienna, with Mr. Dalton acting like that—doesn’t it make you mad?”

She gave a cold little laugh, eyes like ice. “Mad? What good would that do? This is how the industry works. Either learn to play the game, or get out.”

She paused, glanced at me, something complicated in her tone. “Liam, you’re still green. You’ll figure it out.”

I froze, half my anger doused by her words.

The car went dead quiet, neon strobes whisking past the windows. I thought of her leaning on my shoulder yesterday—there’d been a hint of something real. Now she felt like a stranger, all chill and distance.

Her dress caught the light, the neckline slightly open, the curve of her collarbone making my heart kick. But that coolness of hers was like a bucket of ice water, leaving me clear-headed and lost.

Back in my studio, I lay on the bed with my thoughts in a snarl. Her words sat in me like a thorn; Mr. Dalton’s clammy hand, the knowing smiles around the table, Sienna’s cold half-smile—scene after scene replayed like a movie.

I started to wonder if I’d been naive. This business isn’t the glossy dream I imagined; there are too many dirty rules. But I wasn’t ready to roll over and quit.

I clenched my fists and told myself: Liam, get smarter, or you won’t even get a foothold.

The aftertaste of the booze hung like fog I couldn’t shake. Mr. Dalton’s oily grin, Sienna’s icy “You get used to it,” and the hint of curves beneath her gown looped in slow motion through my head.

I left the restaurant with the night wind cooling my face, but it couldn’t calm the restlessness inside me. I didn’t want to go back to that cramped apartment that only made it harder to breathe. My feet moved on their own toward the office. The building was barely a ten-minute walk; maybe there I could find a corner to breathe and untangle the knot.

Los Angeles was still loud, neon painting the streets every color, but the city felt like a giant whirlpool, ready to swallow a hothead like me whole.

At the base of the building, I looked up. A warm light glowed from a seventh-floor window. Who was still grinding this late?

I pushed through the doors and rode the wheezing elevator, my heartbeat picking up like I was headed to a secret rendezvous.

The office door was half-open. Inside came the soft clatter of keys and a trace of perfume—jasmine laced with musk—sweet enough to unsettle your nerves. I eased the door wider, peeked in, and froze. Chloe Mercer sat at the back desk, eyes locked on the screen. She was the company’s vice president, twenty-eight, rumored to be a ruthless climber who’d fought her way up from the bottom.

I’d only ever seen her in passing, always in a razor-sharp suit, with a presence so strong you didn’t dare look straight at her. Tonight, she looked like someone else: a black blazer draped over her chair, a white silk blouse unbuttoned three notches, revealing a sculpted collarbone and a deep shadow of cleavage, the lace edge of her bra just visible.

Neon Mirage