prologue
. . .
Layla
Don’t text him. Don’t text him. Don’t text him.
Layla, you silly girl, don’t do it.
I stare at my phone sitting idly on my acrylic desk, begging to be touched. Spinning around in my chair, I think of all the reasons why I shouldn’t text Reed.
1. I’m engaged.
2. He’s older than me.
3. All of the above doesn’t mean shit.
It’s taunting me, that stupid little box is taunting me. I’ve never once thought about cheating on Brian, but lately, he’s been an asshole.
I know, I know, why now? Well, he wasn’t always like this. I’ve been with him since I was seventeen; he was my first everything. Fast forward ten years, my social media fame had grown; he changed.
He went from bringing me my favorite flowers, sunflowers, every day, along with a cute little note, to nothing at all. Now, he ignores me, cheats on me (which he thinks I don’tknow, but as women, we know), and sex? Only when he wants.
So the question I ask myself is, why do I stay? Well, Layla, if you must ask, we have over five million followers for our couple content, and I’m scared that if I leave him, no one will watch my content anymore.
You’re so stupid, Layla. People are dying.
I let out a long, exasperated sigh, still staring at my phone. Whatever, I should plot out content to film. With that, I scoot my chair toward my desk, pushing my phone far away from me before I grab my yellow spiral notebook.
Scribbling out ideas, getting in the zone, the door to my office slams open, hitting the wall, causing me to bounce up in shock.
My heart falls straight into the pit of my stomach, sending a wave of dread through me.
Brian walks in with a look of disdain written all over his face. He doesn’t even look at me when he drops the bouquet on my desk.
He’s not ugly. Not at all. Six foot four, broad shoulders, and muscles that used to make me melt just by looking at him. His black hair is always perfectly styled, every strand in place, like he’s auditioning for a magazine cover.
And those piercing blue eyes, yeah, once they made me weak. But now? Now they’re cold. Empty. All that polished, perfect packaging doesn’t matter when the personality inside ruins everything.
A bouquet lands on my desk with a dull smack. My eyes move from my pen to the sad little bouquet, of course, they’re not sunflowers. It’s never sunflowers anymore, just some sad-ass tulips with drooping stems and browning tips.
“There,” he says, his blue eyes piercing into mine. “Since you’re always bitching about me not getting you flowers.”
My pen freezes over the page of my notebook, where half-finished content ideas are scribbled in loops of purple ink. He notices what I’m doing, and he scoffs with a sly smile stretching across his lips.
“Get your little ideas ready so we can film and actually make some money,” he adds, dusting his jacket off.
Then he’s gone, turning on his heel and slamming the door hard enough to make the vase wobble on my desk.
I stare at the tulips. Pathetic, wilted, wrong. They resemble the apology he’ll never give me—half-dead, careless, already discarded.
Fuck him and his shitty tulips.
I snatch my phone in fury, scrolling through my contacts, until I findhis.
Type. Delete. Type. Delete.
Ughhhhhh, why is this so hard?
