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Do as I say, Grace, and I’ll give you the things you want.

But do I really want them if that’s how I have to get them? Isn’t getting them part of the journey? Aren’t things like success and money and a nice big house supposed to be the result of hard work, determination, tenacity, and a little bit of luck?

This dress symbolizes all the wrong things for me. It was all luck. There’s no hard work in being Asher’s plaything. There’s no satisfaction beyond an orgasm. I don’t want to be lucky, I want to be good. I want to succeed at more than just following the sexual commands of an ego-inflated movie star.

And I’m ashamed of myself for allowing this to happen. For being drawn in, for being seduced by him.

He seduced me into being someone else.

And it’s got nothing to do with the sex. Some of that is the real me, obviously, since I get off on it. That’s not the problem. The problem is not me, actually. It’s him.

He’s an ass**le.

And that sucks because the little dream bubble I wrapped around Vaughn Asher the Movie Star is being shattered right before my eyes. The reality of Vaughn Asher the Man is such a disappointment, my heart hurts.

I sit down on the bed, still naked, and allow myself to feel it for the first time.

My dream man is a huge letdown.

I let the silent tears fall and then wipe them away with the back of my hand.

But he was right about one thing, all we’ve done is fight since we met. In fact, the whole relationship is based on who’s in charge. Not anything personal. And all that stuff he talked about last night doesn’t even count, because I was asleep for most of it and that’s the only reason he said all that. He thought I was asleep.

No, the only thing I know about Asher is that his c**k is big, his sexual preferences are exotic, and he gets off making me do things I’d rather not.

I’m young. I’m on the verge of a promising career doing something I actually enjoy. I’m pretty enough, even in my own eyes, to know I deserve more than this. I deserve more than to be a man’s casual plaything. I deserve more than to be a man’s second thought. I deserve the dream. The fairy tale. I’m worth it.

A breath comes out and with it, heartache. Because as much as I hate to admit it, I’m so f**king sad that he’s a dick. I kneel down to my bag and rummage through it to find my last pair of clean shorts and tank top and then dress quickly. I drag a brush through my hair and I’m just about to flop down on the bed when there’s a knock at the door.

My stomach and heart both twist up with that small noise.

Vaughn? It must be him. Do I want to answer it?

I roll my eyes and sigh. As if there was ever any question.

I get up just as the second knock comes, and straighten my tank top. I have no bra on, and my girls are perky, but this morning he f**ked me in the woods, so whatever. I walk over to the door slowly to make him wait, and then twist the handle and pull it open.

It’s a woman.

No, I take that back. It’s a girl. College-age maybe, and she’s dressed up in a tan skirt suit with a ruffly white blouse peeking through her cropped blazer.

OK, what the hell is this? “Can I help you?” I ask in my most annoyed voice.

She smiles stiffly at me, like she’s some kind of uptight librarian. Her hair is pulled back in a severe bun like a ballerina might wear, her jewelry is large and gaudy like a grandma might wear, and her suit skirt is too short. A micro mini. “Ma’am,” she says, “Mr. Asher asked me to drop off your paperwork. He’d like me to notarize it and then bring it back to him immediately.”

I almost choke. “Excuse me?”

She pushes her glasses up her nose and tilts her head up. “I’m not privy to the details, ma’am, but he said the two of you had agreed to a contract.” She pulls a tablet out of her messenger bag and starts tapping on the screen with a stylus.

“Who are you?” I ask, annoyed. Something is wrong here. Something about her is—

“I’m Felicity, Mr. Asher’s lawyer—”

—off.

“I handle all his business arrangements. And he asked me to come here and have you sign the NDA the two of you discussed over the weekend.”

“Lawyer?” Ha! I laugh. “You’re like twelve years old.”

She pushes her glasses up again and crinkles her nose. “I was a child prodigy, Ma’am, it’s not my fault I’m young.”

And that’s when I realize what’s wrong with her. She’s made up. She’s fake. She’s… she’s… acting. She’s dressed like a lawyer might look on TV. Like she just walked out of wardrobe.

And suddenly all that heartache at finding out my dream man is an ass**le disappears and is replaced by rage.

“Look, Felicity, if that’s your real name. I’m not sure what kind of game Mr. Asher”—I seethe the name out—“is playing with me, but it’s over. So you can take that tablet and that NDA and go tell him to shove it up his ass. Maybe that will give him the sexual satisfaction he’s looking for.”

I slam the door. Shaking. My whole body is trembling as I realize how big a joke he thinks I am.

How dare he? How dare he send this girl, who is probably one of his many, many, many sexual conquests, to my door to ask for my signature?

And I’m sure he does want that signature. He did all kinds of questionable things with me this weekend. He wants to make sure I’m silenced before he goes back to his life in LA.