Acting The Part

Chapter 3: Megan

The red dress clung to my body like a second skin, its fabric soft and expensive, but it felt like a prison. I stared at my reflection in the hotel bathroom mirror, barely recognizing the woman staring back at me.

The deep red contrasted sharply with my dark skin, and the silver high heels on my feet made me taller, more imposing. But this wasn't me. This wasn't who I was supposed to be.

I adjusted the thin straps of the dress, my hands trembling. I hate this, I thought. I hate this more than anything. But I'd made my decision. I didn't have a choice anymore.

My mom needed me, and I couldn't waste time pretending I was going to make it in Hollywood on talent alone. Not when someone like Noah Rodriguez held all the cards.

Allan, my manager, had made the arrangements. He'd contacted Mr. Rodriguez earlier in the week, and the message was clear: if I wanted help, if I wanted money, I needed to meet him tonight. And I knew exactly what he wanted in return.

There was no role on the table, no promises of a bright future. Just my body. I was doing this for my mom, not for me. I repeated the thought like a mantra, hoping it would make me feel less disgusting.

I smoothed my hands over the dress one more time and turned away from the mirror. My heart pounded as I stepped out of the bathroom and into the hallway.

The hotel was one of those high-end places with marble floors and chandeliers, the kind of place you'd expect to see celebrities and CEOs. Not a struggling actress about to sell herself for cash.

I walked through the lobby, the click of my heels sharp against the polished floor, echoing in my ears like a countdown. My stomach twisted with every step, my mouth dry despite the gloss I'd slathered on my lips.

I felt like I was walking into a nightmare, but I couldn't turn back now. I didn't have the luxury of second thoughts.

The bar came into view, its soft lighting casting a warm glow over the leather seats and polished wood. A few people were scattered around, couples talking in hushed voices, businessmen sipping scotch. No one paid me any attention, but I felt like they all could see through me. Like they knew exactly what I was about to do.

I needed something to steady my nerves. Without thinking, I made a beeline for the bar, my heels wobbling just slightly. The bartender, a woman with short blonde hair tied back in a tight bun, looked up as I approached. Her eyes scanned me quickly, and I could tell she knew. She knew I wasn't just here for a drink.

"I'll take a shot," I said, my voice tight. "The strongest thing you've got."

The bartender raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything. She turned to grab a bottle from the shelf behind her, moving with that calm efficiency bartenders had when they'd seen it all before. She set the shot glass down in front of me, filled to the brim with a clear liquid that smelled like pure fire.

I raised the glass to my lips and downed it in one go. The burn hit my throat instantly, spreading through my chest like a wildfire. I coughed, blinking back tears as the alcohol did its job, numbing everything.

I slammed the glass back on the bar. "Another," I said, my voice already a little slurred.

The bartender hesitated this time, her eyes narrowing as she took in my appearance more closely. "You sure about that?" she asked. "You look like you need to keep your head clear."

I let out a soft, bitter laugh. "Trust me, if I go in there sober, I'll puke all over him."

She didn't ask who he was, but her lips pressed into a thin line. Still, she poured another shot, sliding the glass over to me.

I reached for it, but before I could grab it, a hand shot out from beside me and snatched the glass away.

"Hey!" I snapped, turning to see who the hell dared to take my drink.

The man next to me was tall, easily over six feet, with broad shoulders barely contained by the crisp, white shirt he wore. His blonde hair curled slightly at the edges, and his deep-set blue eyes held a look of mild amusement as he raised the glass to his lips.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended. The alcohol was starting to make me bolder, more reckless.

He took a sip of the drink—my drink—and set the glass back down on the bar. "I paid for it," he said, his voice low and smooth, with just a hint of arrogance. He slid a black card across the bar to the bartender, who took it without question. "So technically, it's mine."

I stared at the card, then back at him. He looked rich. No, not just rich—filthy rich. The kind of man who could buy anything he wanted without blinking.

He had that effortless confidence about him, the kind that came with power and privilege. And as much as I hated to admit it, he was gorgeous. His jaw was sharp, his lips thin but perfectly shaped, and his blue eyes seemed to pierce straight through me.

His gaze flicked over my dress, his frown deepening. "What?" he asked, noticing the way I was staring at him.

I smiled, the alcohol buzzing in my veins, making me feel lighter, more daring. An idea popped into my head, and I couldn't tell if it was the liquor talking or my desperation.

Either way, it was better than the alternative. I didn't have to go upstairs to Noah Rodriguez. I didn't have to give him my first night.

I leaned in closer, just enough that our bodies almost touched. "You're rude, you know that?" I said, my voice dropping to a playful whisper. "Taking a lady's drink like that."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "You're the one who looks like you could use some water instead."

I giggled, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. "Maybe I do. But I don't think water's going to help me with what I have to do tonight." I licked my lips, watching as his gaze flickered, just for a second, down to my mouth. "But maybe you can."

He blinked, his expression shifting from mild amusement to something more guarded. "What are you talking about?"

I leaned in even closer, my lips brushing his ear as I whispered. "How about we make this night memorable? You and me. Right now."

He pulled back slightly, his blue eyes narrowing. "You're drunk."

I shrugged, giving him my sweetest, most seductive smile. "Maybe a little. But I know what I'm saying."

And I did. At that moment, I knew exactly what I was doing. If I had to give up my first night, it wasn't going to be to some fifty-year-old married pervert. It was going to be with this man. The one sitting in front of me, who looked like he'd been made for sex. It wouldn't be that bad of a memory. It wouldn't hurt as much.

His eyes searched mine, confusion mixed with something else—curiosity, maybe. But he didn't pull away.

"So?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper now. "What do you say? You up for it?"

The alcohol swirled in my head, making everything feel distant and dreamlike. But I could still feel the tension between us, the way his gaze lingered just a little too long on my lips, the way his mouth tightened as if he was considering it.

For a moment, neither of us said anything. The world around us seemed to fade, the bustling hotel bar disappearing as I waited for his answer. My heart pounded in my chest, and I couldn't tell if it was from the alcohol or the anticipation.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke.

"You have no idea who I am, do you?"

I blinked, caught off guard by the question. "What?"

He leaned in, his lips brushing against my ear now, his voice low and dangerous.

"Be careful what you're asking for, sweetheart. You might not like the answer."