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❝It's honestly a travesty that I didn't blow up sooner, I could've been a millionaire by now.❞
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The flashbulbs popped like distant gunfire. To her, it was nothing more than the cracking of concrete beneath a queen's heel. Be woken up by someone whose livelihood is being her alarm clock, get dolled up until she's America's Sweetheart, smile for the cameras, rinse, repeat. She could do it all blindfolded now-every pose, every flutter of her lashes choreographed to perfection, it was so horrifically easy to have everyone wrapped around her finger. She kept smiling, that iconic bright red rouge smile plastered across her face as she scanned the crowd, taking mental snapshots of every envious gaze, every mouth parted in awe. It was intoxicating, the way the world seemed to twist and bend and fold in her presence.
Ramona Ritchi was their goddess, their vision of perfection draped in designer silk and diamonds. Dazzling enough to make them forget themselves.
She was standing on the platform of the station now, waiting to board the Orient Express-she hated waiting. She was Ramona Ritchi, for God's sake! It was bad enough she had to travel in public in the first place. Well, she had to wait for her favorite person in the world to arrive, so she might as well get some press coverage for her newest film, Only the Good Die Young, like her manager Robert Ziegler had suggested. Not that she was in any mood to seek the advice of the man who said they had to cut costs and so she couldn't travel privately, but in this case, it benefit her, and more importantly, her image. And there was nothing Ramona cared about more than her image.
