Lindsey Ford - the Price of Ambition
by Noctavya
Copyright© 2025 by Noctavya
Erotica Sex Story: “She thought she owned the stage, until the stage owned her.” Lindsey Ford, the golden girl of Maplewood, learns that ambition has a price. From small-town dreams to the glittering halls of power, she climbs fast—too fast—on charm, wit, and a senator’s son who mistakes hunger for love. But the higher she rises, the thinner the air becomes, and the more her own reflection begins to look like the people she swore she’d never become.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Mult Blackmail Consensual NonConsensual Reluctant Heterosexual Fiction Rags To Riches Tear Jerker BDSM Humiliation Torture Gang Bang Group Sex Anal Sex Double Penetration Oral Sex Sex Toys AI Generated .
The mirror reflected Lindsey Ford’s perfection. Golden hair tumbled past her shoulders, catching the light just so. Her blue eyes sparkled, sharp and calculating, framed by lashes that seemed to promise secrets and danger. At 175 centimeters, with curves that drew stares without effort, she dressed carefully—each choice deliberate, designed to make hearts skip and minds surrender. The fitted dress clung just enough to her C-cup chest, the slit in her skirt teasing long legs she knew boys would follow with their eyes.
She twisted slightly, admiring the sway of her hips, and smiled. Lindsey knew the effect she had. The boys—rich, naive, eager—lined up to fall into her orbit. One night with her, and they’d remember it forever, burning in memory, leaving them desperate for another. But every thrill came at a cost: their pride, their time, their favors.
Tonight’s target was a senator’s son—cute, privileged, oblivious, and, most importantly, connected. The long list of boys she had toyed with over the years was extensive, but it never slowed the stream of admirers. They wanted her, feared her, and envied her—though envy felt trivial to Lindsey, who held the power.
The girls at school whispered, rolled their eyes, sometimes hated her—but no one dared cross her. Lindsey was untouchable, a force of allure and calculated cruelty. Her charm was a weapon, her body a tool, and her ambition limitless. As she applied the final swipe of lipstick, she let herself smile at the reflection: tonight, she would extract everything she needed, and leave him wanting more. Just like always.
Her reflection lingered in the mirror for one last second before she grabbed her clutch and slipped out the door. Lindsey Ford had always known what she wanted. Born to loving, middle-income parents, she grew up in a home that smelled of fresh-baked bread and faint perfume of her mother’s lilies. Her father, a steady man with calloused hands, ran a local hardware store and had a quiet pride in his daughter’s poise. Her mother, soft-spoken and attentive, fussed over her school projects and her wardrobe, gently chiding her for occasional “little games” with boys, though never too harshly.
They were ordinary, caring, stable—good parents—but they could not tame her ambition. Lindsey knew she was meant for more than this sleepy town, more than high school dances and local accolades. From the moment she discovered classic films—Rita Hayworth’s fire, Ava Gardner’s effortless magnetism—she had a vision of herself on red carpets, flashing lights, the world at her fingertips.
Her parents understood she was clever, even naughty. They had noticed the way she charmed teachers, manipulated classmates, and left boys both enchanted and frustrated. They were aware, in the gentle way loving parents notice their child’s mischief, that Lindsey’s charm was dangerous, her drive unstoppable. But even their careful guidance could not cage her; they could only watch as she set her sights higher, honing her looks, her smile, her voice, and her body into tools to carve a path toward stardom.
And Lindsey had learned well: ambition was a weapon, beauty a strategy, and the world would bend—eventually—to her will. Tonight, the senator’s son was just another stepping stone on a ladder she had already begun to climb.
Lindsey lingered in front of the mirror one last time, running her fingers through her golden hair, adjusting the hem of her dress, and smoothing the curve of her waist. Her reflection smiled back—sharp, confident, dangerous. She checked every detail: lashes curled just right, lips glossy, scent subtle but addictive.
From the bedside drawer, she took out the small pack of rubbers she always carried, tucking them into her clutch. Next, a tiny pill—oral Viagra—slid into her palm. Tonight’s target was the big fish: the senator’s son, rich, connected, and precisely the opportunity that could catapult her ambitions into orbit. She wanted him to feel it—all of it—the charm, the allure, the total surrender that only Lindsey could inspire.
It wasn’t just about lust. It wasn’t affection. It was strategy. Every glance, every touch, every calculated motion would bend him exactly the way she needed. This was the world she had chosen, and she would master it—one conquest, one favor, one stepping stone at a time.
Her lips curved into a satisfied smile. Tonight, she wouldn’t just charm him. She would own the moment, bend it to her will, and make sure he never forgot her name.
He was halfway down the stairs when Lindsey’s heel clicked on the last step. She paused, smoothing the front of her dress with the practiced flick of a hand, then turned. Her father looked up from the paper, saw her, and something like a small, sad pride flickered across his face.
“You look ... good,” he said, voice caught between worry and the easy fondness of a man who’d watched this girl grow from scraped knees to calculated smiles.
She crossed the room and took the hug he offered—brief, familiar, the kind of hug that had been patched into their lives through birthdays, recitals and late nights. He held her a second longer than he had to, inhaling the perfume she saved for nights like this.
“You know where you’re going,” he murmured. “You do your mother and me proud, Lindsey. Just—” he eased back, searching for the words that would sound like both a warning and a benediction, “—you’re a grown woman now. You decide what to do with your life.”
Her smile was small, private. “I know.”
“For the love of God, don’t get pregnant,” he added, blunt as an old wrench. Then, with a half‑smile that betrayed how much he trusted her while still trying to keep her safe, he reached into his wallet. “If he’s not the one paying, use the card I gave you. And—” he tapped the inside of her wrist like a man sealing a deal, “—call us if you need anything. Even at two in the morning.”
Lindsey’s laugh was casual, practiced. “Relax, Dad. I’ll be fine. It’s just dinner.”
He squeezed her shoulder once, resigning himself to letting the bird fly. “Fine. Be careful. And remember—come home when you want. We’ll always be here.”
She left him on the porch, the screen door closing with the soft click that had always meant “goodbye for now.” Down the walk she paused only long enough to look back—at the warm light spilling from the kitchen, at the man who’d taught her to change a flat tire and to keep her smile ready. She tucked the memory into the same place she kept her plans: neat, controlled, a resource to be used when necessary.
Tonight, she thought, sliding into the car, the senator’s son would be impressed. Tonight, she would turn charm into contact, contact into favors, favors into leverage. Her father’s words were a cushion, not a cage. She drove off with her ambition humming under the skin, a perfect, dangerous smile waiting for the rest of the world.
The dinner had been flawless. Crystal glasses reflected candlelight, the table set like a scene from a magazine. Lindsey had smiled, laughed, guided the conversation effortlessly, while her target—the shy, wealthy senator’s son—sat mesmerized, hanging on every word, every tilt of her head.
By the time they left, she had him exactly where she wanted: pliant, eager, and trusting. The drive to the best motel in town was smooth; Lindsey’s hand brushed his in the softest, most deliberate way. Her mind ticked through every detail, every moment carefully curated. A tiny pill slipped discreetly into his drink—a gentle nudge to ensure he could keep up with her plans.
She whispered in his ear, playful, teasing, confident: “You’ll want to enjoy this ... you’ll need it for your first time.”
And then it happened. Not in explicit motions, but in the memory, the effect, the domination of the night. He gave everything he had, and she took it, masterful, confident, leaving him dizzy, breathless, and forever changed.
When it was over, Lindsey leaned back, satisfied, brushing a strand of hair from her face. One night. One conquest. One step closer to everything she wanted. He would remember it forever—the pleasure, the thrill, the surrender—and so would she: a tool, a stepping stone, a lesson in power.
It wasn’t love. It wasn’t affection. It was Lindsey Ford’s world, and the moral compass of any boy who fell for her had already been rewritten.
His name was Ethan Caldwell. Tall enough to be handsome, with an easy smile and boyish charm, he was as eager as any nineteen-year-old could be—but also genuinely kind. Lindsey noticed everything about him: the way he always opened doors, the way he looked at people, the way he handed over his credit card with a nervous laugh and a glint of trust.
She let him fall hard. She flirted, teased, smiled, and occasionally let him believe he was in control. Every swipe of his card, every favor he offered, every hopeful look he sent her way—she catalogued meticulously. And yet, he knew, deep down, that he was being taken to the cleaner. He didn’t mind. That, more than anything, made Lindsey’s satisfaction bloom. Control, charm, and power—they were hers, and he handed them willingly.
For three months, they dated. She picked when, how, and where intimacy happened. Sex was sparse; Lindsey didn’t need it. What she thrived on was the push and pull—the anticipation, the hunger she could command. He became dependent, craving her attention, aching for connection she doled out on her schedule.
And Lindsey noticed something strange beneath it all: he was genuinely kind, generous in ways that didn’t benefit her. In some other universe, she thought, he would be the perfect husband—warm, loyal, honest. But not in her world. In her world, kindness was cute, desire was currency, and Lindsey Ford took exactly what she wanted.
Every glance, every sigh, every small surrender reinforced the lesson she’d always known: ambition demanded sacrifices, and love was a distraction. Ethan Caldwell was delightful, pliant, and completely useful—and that, for Lindsey, was all that mattered.
Lindsey had visited the Caldwell house twice before. The first time, she was all polite smiles, soft laughter, and modest attire—a picture of the sweet, attentive young woman any father would approve. The second time, still polite, still charming, she added just a touch more confidence to her walk, a little more sparkle in her eyes, but nothing overt. Each time, she played the game cautiously, learning the rhythm of the house, the ways Ethan moved, and the small, telling glances of his father, Senator Richard Caldwell.
Now, on the third visit, Lindsey had transformed. The dress she wore clung to her curves in ways that were daring yet controlled, cut to tease without overstepping. Her hair shimmered perfectly, her lips glinted in a subtle but provocative way. Every inch of her was calculated to captivate. She knew exactly how to draw attention, and she wore it like armor—bold, radiant, unashamed.
Richard Caldwell watched from his chair in the study, arms crossed, a quiet smile on his face. He was a traditional man, a family man at heart. Dirty politics didn’t define him—he may have played in the arena, but at home, he was honest, loyal, and principled. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t need to. He had seen plenty of women like Lindsey before. He could read the intent in a glance, a smile, a carefully timed laugh.
“Lindsey,” he said, voice steady, warm, amused, “what brings you here this time?”
“I ... I wanted to ask a favor,” Lindsey said, eyes shining. She paused, letting the moment linger, letting the room take in her new aura. “A letter of recommendation for USC. I ... I want to study there. To really begin.”
Richard leaned back, letting a subtle glint of mischief slip into his expression. “A recommendation, huh? That’s bold. Very bold.” He glanced at Ethan. “You know ... we even have a scholarship program. For the right candidate.”
Lindsey’s eyes widened, glowing. She leaned in slightly, offering her brightest, most flattering smile toward Ethan. “Oh, Ethan ... that would be amazing. You always believed in me, didn’t you?” She cooed the words, her voice soft, almost innocent.
Richard watched quietly, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. This was a test, he thought. A clever, ambitious girl, but not one to be trifled with. A truly pure girl wouldn’t grasp a major favor so eagerly, wouldn’t allow her eyes to light up at such an offer without hesitation. Lindsey had fallen hook, line, and sinker, and he allowed it to play out, noting every flicker of desire, every flash of ambition.
“Very well,” he said finally, voice even but firm. “I’ll write the letter. And the scholarship ... we can consider that too, if your talents truly justify it. But Lindsey,” he added, gaze softening just a touch, “remember, favors are nothing without effort on your part. USC is not a gift—you’ll have to earn it.”
She smiled, all warmth and subtle triumph, leaning toward Ethan once more. “I’ll make you proud, Ethan. I promise.”
As she left, Richard Caldwell sat back, arms folded, amused, and quietly impressed by her audacity. She had charm, ambition, and skill—but he was a good father, a good man. He would give the young girl a chance, while quietly cataloging her cunning, her beauty, and her dangerous cleverness. Lindsey didn’t know it yet—but she had already passed the first real test in a house full of watchful eyes.
Ethan left the study with a lightness in his chest. He was still naive, still the kind, earnest boy who believed in the goodness of people. Senator Richard Caldwell had tried, gently, to steer him away from politics—hoping his son would pursue law or medicine instead—but Ethan’s attention was elsewhere. Tonight, Lindsey had captivated him.
She smiled at him, bright and radiant, leaning close in a way that made his pulse quicken. One thing led to another, and just like that ... she gave him another night, another taste of the power she wielded. It was easy, fluid, almost transactional, like some sort of cheap payment for her approval, her time, her attention.
Ethan knew, deep down, that this wasn’t love. That she was using him, that he was a stepping stone, a plaything. But he let himself believe in a story he wanted to be true: that maybe she was just ambitious, that maybe, in some corner of her heart, there was a place for him.
And Lindsey ... Lindsey knew exactly what she was doing. Every sigh, every glance, every whisper of her voice reinforced her control. She wasn’t innocent. She wasn’t naive. And she certainly wasn’t losing. Ethan’s heart, earnest and pure, only sharpened the taste of her victory.
Graduation night glittered with chandeliers, soft music, and the hum of accomplishment. Lindsey Ford, the golden girl, had earned her full scholarship, the recommendation from a U.S. senator practically guaranteeing her place at USC’s School of Dramatic Arts. Her dress shimmered, just enough to catch eyes without tipping into overt vulgarity, her confidence radiating through every step.
Ethan Caldwell beamed beside her, pride and longing mingling in his gaze. They slipped away to a private suite at the 5-star hotel reserved for the event’s elite guests. There, Lindsey gave him the night he’d dreamed of—the kind of pleasure that would linger in his mind forever. She let him feel dominance, control, and fulfillment, teasing, yielding, and playing perfectly into his hopes, all while keeping herself untouchable in her mind.
Afterward, as the sheets cooled and the hum of the city whispered through the window, Lindsey sat up, hair cascading over her shoulders, eyes glinting. She brushed a strand back and sighed, almost regretful—but only just enough to keep the performance convincing.
“I ... I have to tell you something,” she began softly, voice melodic but firm. “I think ... we should break up.”
Ethan’s heart skipped. “Break up? But ... Lindsey, I—”
“I need to focus on my studies,” she continued smoothly, eyes unwavering. “USC is a huge opportunity. My career ... everything I’ve worked for ... I can’t let anything distract me. And ... you understand that, right?”
He swallowed hard, voice shaking. “I ... I understand, but ... Lindsey, I can ... I’ll move closer. I’ll even forgo Harvard, just to be near you. I ... I want us.”
She tilted her head, the faintest smirk tugging at her lips. “Ethan...” She leaned close, voice low and soft, almost tender. “I know you mean that. But ... that’s the problem.”
He frowned, unsure, desperate. “The problem? What do you mean?”
Her smirk deepened, eyes glinting with a cruel delight. “You think you’re in control, that your love, your loyalty, your generosity ... changes anything. But it doesn’t. I’m ... not yours. And I never was. You were ... perfect for me. Useful. But that’s it.”
Ethan froze, heart pounding, understanding dawning too late. “You ... you’re serious?”
“Oh, very serious,” she replied lightly, brushing past him with the grace of a queen leaving a court. “And Ethan ... you’ll remember tonight forever. But don’t mistake memory for possession. I’m ... always three steps ahead.”
As she left the room, heels clicking against marble, Ethan was left breathless, humiliated, and entranced. He had given his heart, his devotion, even his plans—and she had taken it all, leaving nothing but the burn of her triumph. Lindsey smiled to herself in the mirror of the suite: her victory was complete, her ambition untouchable, and her next steps toward Hollywood now wide open.
Ethan had drunk too much, the memory of Lindsey’s words and her triumphant smile gnawing at him. The escort had driven him home quietly, watching the young man slur apologies to the city lights outside the window. By the time he stumbled into his room, the door clicked shut behind him, and he collapsed against it, knees weak, mind spinning with loss and shame.
He tried to think of ways to protect her in his mind, to shield her name from his father’s judgment—even now, intoxicated, brokenhearted. “It’s ... it’s nothing, Dad would never—” He mumbled incoherently, clutching at the sheets.
A knock came at the door. “Ethan ... it’s me. Let me in.”
He froze, panic and shame mixing. “Dad ... don’t ... don’t come in. I ... it’s private.”
“Son,” Richard’s voice was calm, steady, but carried the weight of authority and love, “I know what’s going on. I need you to let me in.”
Defeated, Ethan unlocked the door. He stumbled into the room, trying weakly to shield the truth, to protect Lindsey’s name, but his lies were thin, and his father saw through them instantly.
Richard entered, taking in his son’s drunken, broken state. He was angry—not at the girl, not at the world, but at seeing his son suffer. He sighed and wrapped Ethan in a firm, protective embrace. “Son ... I know everything now.”
Ethan shook his head, tears spilling. “Dad ... I ... I tried ... I thought ... I could ... protect her. I lied...”
Richard held him tighter, voice softening but firm. “I know, Ethan. And now you see the way the world works—the charm, the allure, the power of desire. She’s clever, yes ... even bold enough to try her tricks on me. But you, my dear son ... now you understand.”
Ethan buried his face in his father’s shoulder. “Why ... why didn’t you tell me back then? I ... I could have stopped it ... I could have...”
Richard’s eyes glimmered with both sorrow and resolve. “You wouldn’t have believed me. But now ... you’ve seen, you’ve felt it. And don’t worry, son ... we’ll get her comeuppance. Learn from this. I think it’s time you entered politics. I don’t want this for you ... but knowing you, my dear son ... you’ll need power to survive.”
Ethan sobbed into his father’s embrace, the heartbreak raw, the lesson seared deep. Richard held him tight, both mourning the lost innocence and quietly preparing him for the world ahead—a world where charm, ambition, and cruelty ruled, and only the wise survived.
Summer had passed. Lindsey thought for sure Ethan would call, would beg, would be waiting, hearts on sleeves, ready to be hers again. But the phone stayed silent.
Her parents saw her off with smiles and hugs. She lied about the senator, claiming he adored her acting, that he was certain she’d make it in Hollywood. Her mother’s eyes sparkled with pride. Her father ... well, he said nothing beyond the usual advice, but in the quiet of the hallway, he thought to himself, “Oh, Lindsey ... be careful who you step on your way up.”
Meanwhile, Ethan had changed. Harvard’s law school was rigorous, but it was more than academics that honed him. The boy who had once been obedient, naive, and tender-hearted had awakened something that night. That night with Lindsey.
Something primal had stirred inside him. Something that refused to be ignored. A fire—not for power, not for ambition in the usual sense—but a burning desire for revenge. It simmered quietly beneath his studies, beneath his polished manners, beneath the world-class intellect of a young man on the path to greatness.
He buried himself in books, sharpened his mind, refined his strategy ... but in the darkest moments of the night, when all was silent, he felt it: the echo of a heart betrayed, a lust for retribution that would not be denied.
And somewhere, far away, Lindsey continued her ascent, blissfully unaware that the boy she had broken was no longer a child—he was a force, quietly gathering strength, biding his time, and learning the art of patience.
Hollywood was a new battlefield. Gone were the easy conquests of her small town—Maplewood, Ohio, where beauty and charm had been enough to bend boys and small-town men alike. Here, she was just another girl in a sea of ambition, in a world where looks opened doors—but only for so long.
The girls she met were sharper, craftier, and far more ruthless than anyone back home. The boys were equally calculating, testing every boundary, ready to exploit weakness. Lindsey had thought she had it easy before—but she had underestimated this league entirely. Her first week at a casting party ended with a spiked drink, a near-assault, and a lucky escape that left her shaken. This was a warzone disguised as glamour.
Her studies at USC were adequate, but nothing exceptional. Talent and beauty had been her weapons, but in this city, they were dime a dozen. Every audition reminded her of that truth. Some offered her roles only if she posed in lingerie for cheap magazines; others, sleazy directors of C-class productions, implied favors for a five-second walk-on.
She felt desperation creep in, gnawing at her pride. Every rejection was a reminder that she was no longer in Maplewood, no longer the golden girl who could bend hearts with a smile. Here, she had to fight, negotiate, and compromise, even as ambition burned hotter than ever.
Lindsey adjusted her posture in the mirror, trying to reclaim that spark of confidence. She could play this game. She knew her charm, her wit, and her ruthless streak better than anyone. Hollywood might chew her up and spit her out, but she would learn. She would adapt. She would rise. And no one—no sleazy director, no jealous rival, no spoiled rich kid—would outmaneuver Lindsey Ford if she had anything to say about it.
After months of rejection and humiliation, the call came out of nowhere. A small studio, a modest production — a B-rated Netflix special, the kind people binge half-asleep on a Sunday night. Still, it wasn’t a lingerie shoot, and no one asked her to unzip her pride before the audition.
For the first time in months, she walked onto a set fully clothed and fully in control. Her role was barely two minutes per episode, three episodes total — a nameless intern with one-liners and camera smiles. The pay was laughable, but when she heard the director say, “Cut. Good work, Lindsey,” something in her chest flickered back to life.
She spent the day memorizing cues, watching the lead actors with hungry eyes, studying how they moved, how they charmed the camera, how they owned the room. Between takes, she smiled for photos with the extras, tagging the studio on every post.
It wasn’t fame yet, but it was something she could hold. A credit on IMDb. A paycheck that didn’t come with a whisper of shame. For the first time since Maplewood, Lindsey felt the illusion of control return — and she intended to build on it, one calculated smile at a time.
The study was dim except for the glow of a single banker’s lamp, its green glass reflecting on polished mahogany. Senator Richard Caldwell leaned back, phone in hand, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. His voice, when it came, was calm — the kind of calm that made people listen.
“I owe you one, Bill,” he said, almost cordially. A soft chuckle followed. “No, nothing political ... a small favor. There’s a name I’ll send your way — Lindsey Ford. Young, ambitious. Says she’s bound for the screen. I want her given every chance she thinks she deserves.”
A pause. Then, the faint curl of a smile. “Yes. Every chance. Let her rise first. I want her believing the world is hers before the fall.”
He ended the call, exhaling through his nose, quiet and composed. The senator’s gaze drifted to the framed family portrait on his desk — his wife’s patient smile, his son’s bright, trusting eyes. Ethan had changed. The boy who once dreamed of medicine or law now carried something darker in his stare. And Richard understood.
He wasn’t proud of this side of himself, but he knew the world. Politics, like life, was about timing — a dance of ambition and consequence. And Lindsey Ford ... she had waltzed into their lives too arrogantly to leave untouched.
“Damn that girl,” he muttered under his breath, almost tenderly, like a eulogy. Then he straightened his tie, collected his thoughts, and dialed another number. “Yes, it’s Caldwell. I’ve got a proposition that might interest your studio...”
The plan had already begun.
HOLLYWOOD — SIX MONTHS LATER
Her name didn’t make the poster. Of course it didn’t. She wasn’t naïve enough to expect that. But her face — now that, she spotted in a trailer thumbnail for three glorious seconds. A close-up of her screaming in a blood-streaked bikini.
It wasn’t art. It wasn’t even good. But it was hers.
When Bikini Bloodbath 2 premiered, Lindsey dragged her roommate to the local theater. The audience laughed at the wrong parts, cheered when she got “slashed,” and a couple of frat boys even whistled. “Nice Tits!” Crude? Sure. But it meant she’d been noticed.
After that, things started moving. Her DMs filled with “producers” and “agents.” One of them — with a verified badge, no less — said he could get her a meeting.
Her IMDb page finally had more than one credit.
And for a girl who once believed the world owed her a stage, it felt like destiny calling again.
Far away, a senator glanced at the same IMDb page on his laptop, then shut it with a quiet, satisfied smile.
“She’s back in sight.”
For once, lady luck smiled.
Her name was starting to mean something — small, but echoing faintly through the smoke-filled rooms of L.A.’s after-hours elite. She began receiving invites to the kind of parties where dreams were bartered over champagne and cocaine, and where beauty was currency sharper than gold.
Lindsey was a minor guest, of course. No one asked for her by name — she was just another pretty face attached to a friend of a friend. But she made it work. She always did.
She memorized names, faces, smiles — the hierarchy of power disguised in tuxedos and diamonds. The A-list producers floated in their own orbit, untouchable. But the B-listers, the hangers-on, the “almost-famous” — those were her hunting ground.
She played her game with precision. The right laugh, the right lean. A hand brushing an arm. A wink that lingered a second too long. And when she spotted him — that B-list producer everyone whispered about, the one with a reputation for arrogance and unfiltered cruelty — she adjusted her dress just slightly lower, poured herself another glass, and stumbled into his circle with perfect, practiced grace.
“Oops— I swear I can’t handle L.A. champagne,” she giggled.
“Then you’re in the wrong city, sweetheart,” he smirked, eyes already wandering.
It was a game she thought she was playing.
But Hollywood had been playing it far longer than her.
The phone rang at noon. Lindsey was still asleep, tangled in silk sheets, dreaming of red carpets and flashing lights.
“Ms. Ford?”
The voice was clipped, professional. Female. Uninterested.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Adler requests your presence. Tonight. Nine PM sharp. His residence.”
Lindsey sat up, heart pounding. Adler. The producer she’d met at the party. The one with a reputation for ... demanding performances.
“An audition?” Lindsey asked, trying to sound casual, as if this happened every day.
A pause. “Dress well.”
The line went dead.
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