"Fernanda, don't make this harder," Benedict hissed as his hand closed on her wrist.
"Let go," Fernanda said, pulling her arm free. Her voice was small. Her eyes were not.
Emilio stood by the window, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. He wouldn't look at her. He kept staring at the rain on the glass like it could erase what he'd done.
"You should be grateful," Benedict said. "Opportunities don't just fall into the laps of girls who cry in casting rooms."
"I didn't come here for charity," Fernanda said. "I came for work."
Benedict laughed. He leaned back in his leather chair and spread his hands like a man with too many favors to cash. "Work? Sweetheart, you don't get work. You get deals. You get people to kiss your ass until they can sell you to the right room."
"You sold me," she said. The words were soft, precise.
Emilio made a small noise. "Fern—"
"Don't," Benedict snapped. "You need to learn respect."
Fernanda's fingers closed on her phone. Her thumb hovered over the screen. She tasted metal and cheap wine on his breath. She could call Gideon. She could cry. She could tell Florence to get everyone. None of that would keep his hand off her.
"Lights," Benedict ordered toward a wall. A man in a suit appeared from a side door, carrying an expensive bottle on a silver tray.
"You will do what you are told and you
