Her head swivels toward the window on the far wall. A group of girls prancing around for the camera is visible from this angle, “Oh, it’s our open audition day. It’s a very popular and rewarding program we offer, but it’s extremely competitive with limited availability. It’s filmed for our websites, and a local news channel likes to write a story on our process.” She beams, enthusiastic.
Pulling the bloodied, crumpled piece of paper from my pocket, I slap it on the desk, feeling Marcello’s penetrating gaze on my neck.
“I’ll also be making a further donation.” I tap my finger on the ink, spelling out the girl from the corridor’s name. Alyssa.
The woman’s lips purse, her eyes twitching over the paper. Pulling out a pen, I add, “Name your price.”
After a few seconds of silence, she plasters on a serene smile. “I understand, Mr. Leto. Consider it done.” She slides the information sheet toward her, circling the girl’s name with her pen.
I don’t know why I do it, but it’s done, and Marcello will never let me forget it.
Chapter Eight
Alyssa
I stand on the train platform, my lip busted and ego wounded.
I didn’t stick around to hear I hadn’t made it.
Instead, I rushed outside, pulled on some sweats, changed my shoes, and began the walk back here, thinking of all the lies I can tell my father and Clint when I turn up with my tail tucked between my legs.
I’m a failure.
Misery is my only future, yet I board the train all the same.
Disappointment stirs inside me as I head straight for the toilets, locking the door behind me once inside the small cubicle.
Checking my reflection, I wince. Dried blood coats my chin. My bottom lip is swollen and throbbing. Mascara smears under my eyes.
My thoughts go back to the man in the hall. He was such a jerk. A good-looking jerk, but a jerk all the same.
My tongue swipes over the cut, the memory of his thumb there sending a shiver running through me. Who does that? And why did it turn me on so much?
Maybe I was too sheltered growing up and it’s how men in the city were. Or maybe he was just a rich asshole used to treating people like they’re not his equal.
I imagine him being the type to spit on a woman’s pussy before ramming his fat cock inside her. My nipples peak, the throb in my core aching at the thought.
I hate myself.
Splashing my face with cold water, I suck in a lungful of air and pull my phone out to text my dad when it rings in my hand.
I debate not answering it, thinking it’s probably Clint asking how the audition went, but it’s a number I don’t recognize.
“Hello?” I speak meekly into the receiver, shouldering my bag and exiting the toilet.
“Miss Phoenix?” a woman’s voice asks.
“Yes. Who is this?” I frown, moving out of the way for people still boarding.
“I’m from the administration team at Swan Academy.”
Thud.
“You have been selected as a candidate for a place within our scholarship program. Are you still on the grounds?”
How?
My tongue feels too thick for my mouth but I force the words out.
“Yes. No. I can be,” I stumble, a lump forming in my throat as tears brim my eyes. The emotional wave washing over me almost brings me to my knees.
Barging past the stragglers boarding I push onto the platform, elation bringing the tears falling.
I fucking made it.
“Be there within the hour.”
I don’t understand how I got in, but I’m being shown around the studios and living quarters by my very own tour guide.
Scholars get a room situated in a wing of the school and a small living allowance from our benefactor.
The woman who introduced herself as Megan points to a clock.
“Curfew is eleven o’clock on weekdays, twelve on weekends. Everyone must abide by these times. Even a minute late, and the doors will be locked and you’ll be out for the night.”
I’ve never had a curfew in my life. Living in a small town, there wasn’t much need for one.
Everyone knew everyone and everything was pretty much closed by sundown. It was a graveyard, only the occupants weren’t quite dead yet.
On the outside anyway.
We pass a communal bathroom just as a guy wearing a sliver of a towel comes walking out, raising a cool eyebrow at me.
Megan rolls her eyes. “As you can see, the communal spaces are for all first- and second-year students. Be aware some students’ modesty is non-existent.” This gains her a smirk from the guy, and a head nod from me.
I’m not a shy person. Nudity doesn’t faze me. Leotards are like a second skin in our profession, modesty isn’t something we have.
“You’re expected to clean up after yourselves, and if you have any issues, your house mother will be available between curfew hours.” She carries on walking into a small dining hall.