The Actor's Contract
My pulse is a hammer, slamming against my ribs.
“You can stop this pathetic acting,” Enrique growls, his voice a thunderclap in the sterile silence. “I know the truth.”
I jolt. I’ve never heard him like this — boiling, unrestrained, dangerous. Usually, his anger is cool, sharp-edged, like ice. Now it’s fire. It sounds more like Jackson … but I know it’s him.
A second voice answers, thin, nasal, uncertain. Amanda. Of course. The bitch herself.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she simpers.
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