My Actress Girlfriend - Chapter 5: Chapter 5
You are reading My Actress Girlfriend, Chapter 5: Chapter 5. Read more chapters of My Actress Girlfriend.
My stomach twisted as I debated whether to confront them.
Playing dumb meant life could go on unchanged. But ripping off the mask? That was a gamble—no telling how deep the fallout would run.
Break up? My heart wasn't ready. Stay? The bitterness would eat me alive.
In the end, I went.
The hotel lobby's marble floors echoed under my shoes as Vincent Roscente swaggered in like he owned the place. I ducked behind a pillar, watching him flash that trademark smirk at the desk clerk before snatching his key card. The elevator doors swallowed him whole.
Thirty seconds. That's how long it took for the display to light up—penthouse. Same floor as the room number from Sophia's text.
Vincent? Seriously?
Ten minutes later, Sophia breezed past reception like she'd done this a hundred times, beelining for the elevator without breaking stride.
Game over. They were cheating.
My nails dug half-moons into my palms as I counted down thirty agonizing minutes—plenty of time for showers, discarded clothes, tangled sheets. Let them try explaining this away when I kicked down the door.
The penthouse hallway smelled like expensive carpet and bad decisions. I hammered my fist against the door hard enough to rattle the frame.
After an eternity, it swung open to reveal some twenty-something Barbie doll in a dental-floss bikini.
Recognition flickered—one of Vincent's flavor-of-the-month starlets. The tabloids called her his "goddaughter." Right. The way she was dripping wet with fabric clinging to every curve, she looked about as chaste as a Vegas showgirl.
"Help you?" She didn't even bother crossing her arms, just leaned against the doorframe like a centerfold.
Behind her, the air throbbed with giggles and the clink of glasses. Not an affair. A full-blown fuckfest. My gut churned imagining Sophia in there, trading her dignity for connections while these vultures leered.
"Vincent." I shouldered past her before she could protest.
The suite reeked of champagne and bad choices. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the pool area looked like a Playboy shoot—executives I recognized from Variety's power lists groping women young enough to be their daughters.
No Sophia in the main room. I stalked toward the pool where Vincent held court in the water, his personal harem of starlets clinging to him like remoras. He surfaced from between two sets of fake tits, doing a double-take when he spotted me.
"Ethan?" Water dripped off his ridiculous goatee. "The hell are you doing here?"
Playing dumb meant life could go on unchanged. But ripping off the mask? That was a gamble—no telling how deep the fallout would run.
Break up? My heart wasn't ready. Stay? The bitterness would eat me alive.
In the end, I went.
The hotel lobby's marble floors echoed under my shoes as Vincent Roscente swaggered in like he owned the place. I ducked behind a pillar, watching him flash that trademark smirk at the desk clerk before snatching his key card. The elevator doors swallowed him whole.
Thirty seconds. That's how long it took for the display to light up—penthouse. Same floor as the room number from Sophia's text.
Vincent? Seriously?
Ten minutes later, Sophia breezed past reception like she'd done this a hundred times, beelining for the elevator without breaking stride.
Game over. They were cheating.
My nails dug half-moons into my palms as I counted down thirty agonizing minutes—plenty of time for showers, discarded clothes, tangled sheets. Let them try explaining this away when I kicked down the door.
The penthouse hallway smelled like expensive carpet and bad decisions. I hammered my fist against the door hard enough to rattle the frame.
After an eternity, it swung open to reveal some twenty-something Barbie doll in a dental-floss bikini.
Recognition flickered—one of Vincent's flavor-of-the-month starlets. The tabloids called her his "goddaughter." Right. The way she was dripping wet with fabric clinging to every curve, she looked about as chaste as a Vegas showgirl.
"Help you?" She didn't even bother crossing her arms, just leaned against the doorframe like a centerfold.
Behind her, the air throbbed with giggles and the clink of glasses. Not an affair. A full-blown fuckfest. My gut churned imagining Sophia in there, trading her dignity for connections while these vultures leered.
"Vincent." I shouldered past her before she could protest.
The suite reeked of champagne and bad choices. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the pool area looked like a Playboy shoot—executives I recognized from Variety's power lists groping women young enough to be their daughters.
No Sophia in the main room. I stalked toward the pool where Vincent held court in the water, his personal harem of starlets clinging to him like remoras. He surfaced from between two sets of fake tits, doing a double-take when he spotted me.
"Ethan?" Water dripped off his ridiculous goatee. "The hell are you doing here?"
End of My Actress Girlfriend Chapter 5. Continue reading Chapter 6 or return to My Actress Girlfriend book page.