Allie Winters is the CEO of one of the most profitable fashion lines in the world. But with that comes its own Gucci-level baggage. Between work, fashion shows, and sleep, she has little to no time for romance. Until she starts to get mysterious lov...
I stared down at the headlines irritated, angry, and frustrated. I hadn't seen them before and unlike the others... these were based on real facts about my life. They weren't lies. They were true. And somehow that was so much worse. I could fight lies... but how could I deny something that was a part of who I was? A part of my story?
"Where did you get these?" My voice sounded dangerous. Sharp enough to cut through steel. A tone that meant I was one breath away from doing something reckless.
Laurence Royal blinked, seeming confused by my question. "I know someone who works there. The next set of articles that they have planned for you are quite... colorful." He waved his hand and scoffed. "Obviously untrue."
I felt off-balance. Laurence's attitude didn't match the picture in my mind. He wasn't playing the villain card properly. He was a terrible blackmailer. It matched his terrible taste in socks.
He's lying... he has to be. Why does he assume that there is no truth in the headlines?
"Tabloids try to make everything dramatic," Laurence added.
I scanned the words in my hands, fingers pressing against the ink, willing them to vanish in a cloud of smoke. To become an illusion, etched in ugly neon pink words. Anger warred for control inside me, circling my sanity like a dragon wrapping itself around its hoard of gold and squeezing tight. Anger was easier than being hurt. Hurt implied I could be touched. It implied I gave someone the power to hurt me.
Why are people so mean when they cannot see the person on the other side? Why are people so cruel when they can hide behind a screen? Why are people so eager to pluck up a dagger formed from fire and words, and plunge it deep into a strangers heart like a sport to be proud of? What drives people to be so brave in their cruelty when their faces are masked by screens?
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I stopped reading and moved on to the second article against my better judgment. I needed to know what I was up against, even if the result was having the words tattooed to the tapestry that had carved its way into my heart.
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My heart dropped. The idea of anyone seeing these words... of Tate seeing them was horrific. I had worked so hard to keep my past a secret and the idea that someone was going to show pieces of my private life as a virtual college was almost vomit-inducing. Tate knew pieces of my life. He knew I had gone to juvie. But the article dove deeper, pulling at seems of my past and unraveling them in a pool of pain at my feet.
