“Back then, the media attention wasn’t aimed at me. They saw Ricky as some lovestruck, committed boyfriend. But I guess if it wasn’t for my family, my agent, my best friend…I don’t know how I would’ve made it out alive. I felt so alone.”
“As long as you have people around you that you can trust, you’re going to get through this.”
I have all those people around me still, and I know they’ll stand by my side. I have Dante too—I scan the room to find him, and his eyes catch mine across the crowd. I love him, I know I do. The feeling blooms in my chest like wildflowers after rain, messy and inevitable and perfect.
Even though I can’t map out where we’re heading or if there’s a destination worth reaching, even though I’m as new to relationships as a baby deer is to walking and Dante hascommitment issuestattooed across his heart in invisible ink, I do know we trust each other in a bone-deep way that makes everything else feel like background noise.
Maybe that’s enough of a starting point.
“How long did it take for everything to—?”
“Go back to normal? It never did,” she says, each word a hammer strike. “But it was a year of hell before it started to simmer down. Every outfit criticized. Every performance torn apart. Every relationship dissected.”
A year of this? The fake smiles, the whispers behind my back? How am I going to promoteRobyn Hoodin the face of all of this?
“To be honest with you, that just makes me want to hide in a hole.” I laugh sardonically.
“That’s exactly what you can’t do. I tried it—pulled myself out of the public eye for a month, then two. But I missed the freedom I felt after letting my real voice out there, and once you get a taste of that, you can’t let it go. Take it from me.”
Destiny’s hand finds mine, as if she can tell my mind is putting me through the wringer. “Honey, they’ve already decided what you are—too wild, too flawed, too real.” She sweeps her hand across the room. “And why wouldn’t they when they insist it’s their right to decide, like we signed away our right to be human? Like all those journalists aren’t turning our pain into their entertainment so the world can act shocked when we break.”
There’s something devastating in the way we’ve learned to internalize our own destruction, to mistake survival for weakness. “I don’t want to break. I want to get through this,” I say, determined now.
“You will. Everyone before you did.” She counts off on her fingers. “Britney had a breakdown? They never asked why. Lindsay struggled? Turned it into a punchline. They can try to reduce us to our bodies, our relationships, our beauty secrets.” Her laugh is bitter. “But that only works when we stay in their perfect little boxes. We can’t let them pit us against each other, make us compete for a few seats at the table.”
“We should be building longer tables together.”
“Exactly.”
“Look.” She smiles. “Why don’t I help you show up in a way that matters? The Women in Media gala is the day after Christmas, and I just so happen to be on the board. We need a speaker. Gloria Steinem had to cancel.”
“Me? Are you sure?”
“Yes. Come use your voice. No one ever gave me a chance to speak up; no one cared. So, I’m giving it to you.”
The invitation hangs. I take a slow sip of champagne, letting the bubbles dissolve on my tongue. Through the window, the city lights blink like distant stars, each one a story waiting to be told.
My story, perhaps.
Not the tabloid version, not the Reese-and-Dante version, but mine.
Chapter 42
Dante
My phone buzzesin my suit pocket. Across the room, Reese is laughing with a woman at a table by the window. I’ve been stuck here with these executives for an hour now, listening to them brag about their golf scores while trying to get an in with the USFA committee. The head of Red Bull is warming up to me, and his influence could help expedite my suspension review. But all I want is to walk over to my girl, wrap my arms around her waist, and—
My phone won’t stop vibrating, the screen lighting up with an unknown number. Oakland area code. I reluctantly excuse myself.
Strange.
“Hello?” The word comes out like gravel.
“This call is coming from the Oakland Police Department Central Station on behalf of detainee Holly Hollywood. If you’d like to accept the charges, please press one.”
Holly Hollywood. Who the fuck is that?
My stomach drops, acid rising in my throat as I realize. I slam the one button.
