And then he's gone in a rush. Say what you will about Ronin—I mean, he's a male model, he's somewhat bossy and controlling, and he's got some very Sixties opinions on what he's looking for in a wife—but he is not lazy. The man works his ass off around here. I guess I didn't notice it much during most of TRAGIC because I was too busy being confused and defiant, but he starts his day very early.

Ungodly early.

In fact, this whole studio is filled with those driven A-type workaholic personality people who live for their jobs. Granted, most of them go home, but Elise, Antoine, Ronin, and now me, we stay here twenty-four seven.

I'm not even remotely interested in investing so much of myself and my life in this stuff. Now, maybe if my job was film school or making movies, I might feel the same way.

That brings my attention back to the whole reality show thing. I did not read that contract, I skimmed it in a fit of rage after Ronin started a fight with Spencer and then I got knocked down to the ground by accident. I wonder if the cameras have to be in my bedroom?

That makes me want to throw up.

But I totally asked for this. This was my big declaration of independence. It was a temper tantrum of Rook pointing to herself and screaming, Look at me, look at me! I'm in control now!

What a dumbass I am. Seriously, what was I thinking? Taking all my clothes off for three months of nude body painting. I must've been on some serious instability emotions that night. I sigh as I pull on the clothes Ronin left. Everything is huge, but I've made a big deal about not moving my stuff up here to his apartment so I can retain my freedom. So it's either wear the dirty clothes from yesterday, or his stuff.

I choose his stuff because it smells like him and his smell is delicious. I snicker at this as I brush my teeth and hair, then slip on my old Converse sneakers and head downstairs. The studio is empty today because they've scaled down the regular shoots for the summer. They still have a few jobs going, but no other contracts like STURGIS. They want me to have privacy so it's not weird, but that's pretty stupid since the cameras are gonna be there. My naked body will be on the Biker Channel next year.

I shudder at that.

Bikers staring. DVR-ing me.

Yuck.

I take the stairs down to Antoine's office slowly, listening to the conversation that leaks out. They're not saying anything important from what I can tell, but one guy who has a snooty clip to his speech sounds a little put out about me not being on time. I picture him in my head as my sneakers creep down the concrete steps. He sounds like he's wearing a suit.

When he comes into view as I turn the corner to head back to the office, I put the visual together with the voice.

Yup. He's a suit.

He watches me as I walk towards them, then Ronin, who has his back to me, turns and smiles. "There you are. See, told you, Ford, she's here, she's ready."

Ford—what a stupid name first of all—looks at me dubiously as I approach Ronin, who is now my manager. We decided this on vacation out at the lake. Elise said I had to have someone and I could either go get an agency to represent me, or hire my own manager. I hired Ronin. Of course, he's not taking money from me, but he's in charge of everything, which, yeah, sounds like I sorta just gave in and let him take control, but it's different. It's only for business.

Since Ronin feels the need to kiss ass with this Ford guy, I stretch out my hand and say, "Nice to meet you."

He glares at me from light brown eyes under his furrowed brows. He does eventually reach out and shake my hand, but it takes a few seconds for him to decide to do this. I look over at Ronin as we shake and he smiles. His smile says, Be nice.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Rook," Ford says unconvincingly. "We were given permission to install the cameras in your apartment, so the crew is in the process of doing that now."

"Where's Spencer?" I ask after looking around. "And everyone else?" It's just me, Ronin, and this ass**le named after a truck.

Ford checks his watch. "Well, Ms. Walsh, you're quite late, I made special reservations at an exclusive restaurant downtown to celebrate our partnership, so they all went ahead." Then he disdainfully looks down at my clothes and winces. "You'll need to dress."

My face heats up with embarrassment at how this man is treating me. "Who the hell—"

"She's got an outfit, don't worry," Ronin says, pulling me towards the dressing room. "We'll meet you there."

"What the hell was that?" I ask once we're safely on the other side of the dressing room doors.

"That was called a pissed-off client, Rook, and typically when people are paying you a lot of f**king money to do a job, you try to avoid the pissed-off client. He was never on board with you in the first place, said you were too young, but Spencer insisted and he had a clause in his contract that he was in charge of picking the canvas."

"The canvas." Wow.

"Come on, now, put on the game face. You're in the contract, but this guy is just looking for way to make you screw up and have to pay him a bunch of money, so if you want to keep the cash you just made for TRAGIC, you'll have to be on your best behavior. Got it?"

"Got it," I say as he hands me a pencil skirt, a crisp long-sleeved white shirt, and some low black heels. "This is what I'm wearing?" I'm a librarian. "Can I safely assume the accessories will include glasses on a chain and my hair in a bun? Should I shush people tonight?"