Addicted for Now (Addicted #2)(162)

“I’m not an idiot,” I retort. “I graduated at the top of my class with honors—”

“I don’t care about your f*cking degree,” he says sharply. “You’re in the real world now, Rose Calloway. No university is going to teach you how to navigate this industry.”

Doubt surfaces. I don’t know much about reality television, but I’ve been immersed in the media long enough to know it can help someone as much as it can destroy them.

And I need that help.

I understand exactly why the network would take an interest in the daughters of Fizzle. My father’s brand has beat Pepsi for the past two years in sales, and he’s working to make Fizzle the soda of choice among southern states. We should be as anonymous as the face behind Coca-Cola, but ever since my family was thrust into the public eye, we’ve been under intense scrutiny, and it’s all because of my younger sister’s scandal.

My brand should have exploded from all the media and press, but the name Calloway Couture has been linked with Lily’s dirty secrets. And what once was a thriving fashion line in H&M has been destitute in boxes and boxes, piled in my New York office.

I need good exposure, the kind that will have women desiring a one-of-a-kind coat, a unique pair of a boots, an affordable but chic handbag. And Scott Van Wright is offering me a primetime reality show that will tempt viewers to purchase my pieces.

So that’s why I’m agreeing to this.

I want to save my dream.

Scott says, “There will be cameras in your living room and kitchen at all times, even after the three-person crew leaves. You’ll only have privacy in your bedrooms and bathrooms.”

“I remember this.”

“Good.” Scott clicks his pen. “Then maybe you’ll remember that each week, I expect to have interviews with the cast, which includes you, your three sisters—”

“Not three,” I say. “Only Lily and Daisy agreed to the show.” My eldest sister, Poppy, wouldn’t sign the contract because she didn’t want her daughter to be filmed. My little niece has already endured enough paparazzi since Lily’s scandal.

“Fine, she would have been a boring addition anyway.”

I glower.

“I’m just being honest.”

“I’m used to blunt honesty,” I tell him. “I just find yours crass.”

He eyes me in a new way, as though my words carried a plume of toxic pheromones. I don’t understand. I am so mean. I am glaring like I want to rip off his penis, and yet, he’s attracted. There is something seriously wrong with him.

And maybe my boyfriend.

And really, any guy who’d like to be with me. I’m not even sure I want to be with me.

“As I was saying…” His knee brushes mine.

I roll backwards, and he only grins more. This is not a cat and mouse game like he believes. I am not a mouse. And he’s not a cat. Or vice versa. I am the f*cking shark, and he’s a lame human in my ocean.

And my boyfriend, he’s the same species as me.

“Continue,” I snap.

“I’ll be interviewing you, your two sisters, Lily’s boyfriend and his brother.” 6 people + 6 months + 3 cameramen + 1 reality show = infinite drama. I’ve done the math.

Scott will be conducting the interviews though… I internally gag. “You’re forgetting my boyfriend,” I say. “He’s a part of the show too.”

“Oh right.”

“Don’t act like you forgot, Scott. You just said you were practicing honesty, and now, well, you’re a bit of a liar.”

He ignores my slight with an amused smile. “Every episode will be aired one week after we’ve filmed. Like I mentioned over the phone, we’re trying to make this show as real-time as possible. It’s been six months since it was publicized that your sister is a sex addict. We need to capitalize off that buzz as quickly as we can.”

“You and every other paparazzo,” I say. There’s always at least two chubby males stationed outside my gated house with cameras in hand. Lily jokes that they’re probably hanging around waiting for her to give them blow jobs. I would be more amused if I didn’t see the mail that perverts send her, most accompanied with pictures of their hairy genitals—it’s a sick fan club. I sift through her letters before I hand them to her now.

“And lastly,” Scott says, “you have no control over how you’re edited. That’s my call.”

I have about as much power over the reality show as I do paparazzi’s snap-quick photos.

I can try to act like a non-bitchy, non-argumentative angel on film, and Lily can try to be a virginal saint. But at the end of the day, the cameras will catch us. Flaws and all. And there’s no forcing something different. That was the stipulation that all my friends and sisters agreed to.

To do the show, we’re not pretending to be someone else.

And I would never ask that of them.

We’re rolling the dice on this one. People may hate us. They already call Lily a whore on gossip blogs. But in the small chance that people grow to love us—my company may be saved. I just need good publicity so that a retailer has a reason to stock my clothing line again.

And maybe Fizzle won’t be so bruised by Lily’s impropriety too. Maybe my father’s soda company will rise in stocks rather than fall.