The click of my bedroom door locking felt like a pathetic defense. In this house, locks were just suggestions. I kicked off my heels, the expensive silk hitting the hardwood with a dull thud, and caught my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling vanity mirror. I looked like the "Pure Angel" Marcus wanted, but my eyes were bloodshot and my hands were still shaking from the dinner.
I had spent five years—every day since I turned seventeen—clawing my way up. I’d done the grueling commercial shoots, the bit parts in indie films, and the endless chemistry reads to build a name that belonged to me. And in one night, Marcus had turned that name into a subsidiary of Reed Industries.
A soft, hesitant knock came from the door.
"Scarlett? Honey, can I come in?"
I closed my eyes, a sharp spike of irrit
