Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 43856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
She moved with a natural grace, her tall, slender frame gliding across the set like she owned the space.
Well. . .she kind of. . .did.
At just twenty-three, she was the new It Girl of Hollywood, and everyone knew it, including her.
I, on the other hand, was. . .well, let’s just say, not the kind of woman who turned heads in a room.
My dark brown skin naturally shimmered and. . .I thought, was downright stunning, even if the rest of the world rarely noticed.
Today, my medium-length kinky hair was twisted into a simple updo, practical for the long hours on set but with just enough flair to make me feel, dare I say, cute.
It wasn’t the kind of beauty that stopped people in their tracks, not the kind that graced magazine covers or had men stumbling over themselves to hold open doors.
But it was mine, and in my quieter moments, I took pride in it.
But where Ava was all angles and sleek lines, I was curves—full, unapologetic, holy hell, that’s a lot of CURVES.
I was working on loving those curves, though.
Had even started therapy about that and more.
Either way, my big bust was a lot, even on a good day, and my hips?
Well, let’s just say that finding jeans that fit properly was a workout in itself.
My ex used to love those curves—at least until he didn’t. And for the past ten years, since the divorce, I’d been wondering if anyone else ever would love my curves again.
But the thing was. . .I was also getting to a place where maybe. . .finding love didn’t matter so much anymore.
Ava’s melodic chuckle rose in the air, tying around Marco like a velvet ribbon. As usual, the director was completely enthralled, gesturing animatedly, clearly enjoying her attention.
She had him—and, honestly, every other man on set—wrapped around her perfectly manicured finger.
But how could I blame her?
In an industry like this, a woman either learned to use the tools she had, or got chewed up and spat out.
And Ava?
She wasn’t just surviving.
She was thriving.
Swallowing, I adjusted my blazer, shielding my tummy as it pushed against my dress’s fabric.
You are worthy. You are deserving.
My therapist—bless her determined soul—had given me that mantra to say to myself anytime insecurity snaked up into my heart.
She’d also given me homework for Valentine’s Day this year.
“Take yourself out,” Her tone left no room for debate. “Love yourself the way you want to be loved, Rae. That’s where it starts.”
I hadn’t argued, though I’d rolled my eyes at her suggestion of dressing up and taking myself out on a romantic fancy trip.
I checked my watch.
Soon.
I barely had time to refocus before Liam Grayson strolled in, wearing only a robe loosely tied around his waist.
My first thought—same as always—was that it truly wasn’t fair for one man to look like that.
Sculpted like a god, Liam was the kind of man who didn’t just turn heads; he left entire rooms gaping. Broad shoulders, chiseled jawline, deep-set hazel eyes that looked like they held secrets—everything about him screamed leading man.
But what set him apart—what made him stand out in an industry overrun by self-obsessed, narcissistic pretty boys—was his personality.
He was sweet.
Genuine, even.
He was the only person besides my assistant who asked me how my day was and actually waited for the answer.
At thirty-eight, Liam was still very much in his prime.
I, on the other hand, was forty-seven.
A decade older than him and worlds apart from the early-twenties models and starlets he was always photographed with. His type was women with flawless skin and tiny waists, who looked like they’d just stepped out of a fashion campaign.
It was probably why I hadn’t had sex in ten years, pretty much giving up with competing with those types of women in California.
I wasn’t bitter about it.
I knew my place—both in life and on this set.
I was the behind-the-scenes woman, the one who made sure everything ran smoothly so that men like Liam could shine.
You are worthy. You are deserving.
I put my view back on the set and sipped more of my coffee.
The studio lights blazed down on that massive bed.
I hope everything goes smoothly today.
A second later, Marco barked through his megaphone, "Rae! We need you on Liam’s patch!"
What?
I froze mid-sip, coffee hovering dangerously close to my mouth.
Liam, what did you and your cock do today?
For women, the modesty patch was straightforward enough—a discreet thong-like covering, flesh-colored and adhesive, designed to cling to the actress’s treasure like a second layer.
It stayed secure even during the most vigorous choreography.
Simple, functional, and, dare I say, almost boring.
But men’s patches?
Oh, those were an entirely different beast.
They weren’t just discreet.
They weren’t sleek.
No, they were. . .inventive.
Essentially, it was a sock—yes, an actual sock—for that part, complete with a drawstring, like a tiny, fabric sleeping bag cinched around the crown jewels. Because apparently, the modesty gods decided that men needed a touch of whimsy with their dignity.