Starstruck by the Alpha

ROSE 12 hours earlier… A tear slipped under my thick brown rim of specs and rolled down my left cheek as I stared in yet another disbelief at my work, beautifully blown up on the screen, presented by the head of the styling team to B.A.D’s management team as another one of her creations. They did it again. Those so-called stylists—veterans in their own rights of knowledge, skills, and years of experience—had once again played me. Just to steal my styling idea. An idea that was woven from my father’s gift of creativity. My name is Rose Cintilar. Eighteen. Three years ago, I came to B.A.D, the top talent agency of the U.R.T, with hopes of becoming a famous stylist. My father had always wanted to be one when he was alive, and since I inherited his vibrant creativity, I saw it as my life goal to make his wish come true. It was the least I could do to make amends for what I'd done. If it wasn’t for me, my parents wouldn’t have died. This, I heard from my aunt ever since she took

*Warning: This chapter contains material you may find distressing, including coarse language and depictions related to themes of sex, rape, abuse and violence. ***** RUM An hour earlier… “HARDER! HARDER, RUM BABY!” My hand shot out to cover those pretty red lips as I continued slamming into her, hard and fast… and wild. “Shut the fuck up!” I hissed. “You want people to hear us!” She shook her head as more moans slipped through her greasy lips. “Oh God… fuck, you’re so good, baby! It’s so big… it’s tearing me apart!” “Really?” I got onto the conference room table, clamped her knees together and pressed her down, and pounded into her, swift and rough. “How’s this? Like this, Annie?” “Mmm!!!” She nodded fiercely. “Mmmm!!!!” “Who says you’re loose down here, huh?” I lifted and plunged into her, deeply and viciously. “Take all of me, you slut.” “Yes, I’m your slut! Give me, Rum baby. I love it so… OOH!” The thirty-something divorcee groaned, tormented bliss spread across h

ROSE Something warm and glowing fell on my eyes. I pushed open my lids and my small, cluttered desk greeted me. I was back in my own room. What happened? I rubbed my eyes and tried to recall the most recent events. I sent out my application to be Rum’s assistant… then I left B.A.D by my usual route… and then… and then something–someone– covered my nose and mouth, and there was a strange smell, and… voices! My eyes flew open in aghast, and I screamed a piercing scream. “AH!!!” The door flew open and my roommate, Joy Fairchild, a 24-year-old chemistry grad student of M.A.D. University, crashed through in her pink piggy-print pyjamas and boyish short hair, shouting frantically, “What is it? What’s wrong?” She knelt in front of my bed and I grabbed her arms. “They took me!” “Who’s 'they'?” “T-the team!” Joy jolted upright to hug me and started rubbing the back of my head soothingly. “Those half-ass carbon monoxides? No. They didn’t get you, Rose. Not this time.” But I coul

ROSE “Where the hell were you?” Those electrifying blue eyes glared at me. “And–.” A hand clamped half his face as his brows furrowed in horror. “And what the hell is that smell?” Shit water. A special concoction made by an extraordinary team of professional stylists. That’s right. Instead of perfecting their concepts of style for their artistes, they perfected their recipe for dirty water—the stench is stronger and more powerful; it doesn’t come off even after multiple washes, which was what I had been doing in the past hour since Rum called. But standing before him, I find myself stumped. I can’t tell him the truth. I don’t want him to think that I’m full of excuses. I’m having a fresh clean start with my next favourite person on Earth. He stood. And all movement and sound halted. “Did you hear what I said?” His voice was soft, yet low and threatening. I couldn’t look away. A chilling fear was creeping up my back. “Y-Yes…M-Mr.—.” “THEN ANSWER ME!” he roared. Terro

ROSE The Studio was impressive for a first time visitor like me—it’s enormous, filled with all sorts of instruments and a variety of people and talents. A man–who looks like a bouncer, and I recognised as M.Biggy, one of the most sought-after music producers in the music industry–came forth to take Rum’s hand. They did a secret handshake, which ended with them doing a shoulder-bump, before M.Biggy asked, “You got the bridge?” “Sure.” Rum thrust a thumb in my direction. I blinked at them in puzzlement. Hmm? It’s with me? Fuck! I rummaged through my bag, clawed through the contents, searching wildly for a piece of paper. I don’t recall him passing me anything. But I’m not that confident of my memory. “I said take it down, didn’t I?” Rum shouted with annoyance. “Dumb girl….” “Oh! Those lyrics!” I gasped in relief. “Yes, here it is!” I opened my notebook wide and showed my scribbles to M.Biggy. In a swift motion, he took a snapshot of the page with his own phone then patted my s