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Could she have called her friends and asked for help?
Yes.
But that wasn’t how she operated. So, with a cluster of people filming her every move, she’d paid for the ticket, then barricaded herself in a bathroom stall until it was time to board.
A question had come to mind as she willed herself not to cry as she stood wedged between the toilet and the wall.
Was she cut out for fame?
Was Landon right about her not being ready?
Her laptop pinged, snapping her back. She startled, and her knee bumped the Volvo’s console. A few wrappers fluttered onto the floorboards revealing a shiny black business card.
The Luxe’s business card.
The card printed with the number she was supposed to call when she was ready to pursue a career as a recording artist.
She picked it up and brushed her thumb across the digits.
How could something so tiny feel as if it weighed a ton?
She exhaled a shaky sigh, then gasped when her laptop pinged again—and kept pinging.
Ping, ping, ping, ping.
The alerts piled up as people viewing her livestream posted comments.
She willed herself to pull it together, then mindlessly tucked the card into her shirt beneath her bra strap.
The pings kept coming, puncturing the air in a continuous thread of sound.
She skimmed the box teeming with messages.
Take off the mask, Harper. We know Bonbon Barbie is Harper Presley-Paige.
What happened in Italy?
Why were you crying at the airport?
Why were you at the airport alone?
You looked so happy in Italy.
I’ll take Landon Paige if you’re done with him.
Her stomach twisted into a knot, but she should have expected this.
When she’d stepped off the plane in Denver, she’d heard her name whispered and caught people filming her as she booked it out of the airport. And when the cab dropped her off at home, a handful of reporters had met her at the front door. The men and women had hurled questions like those popping up in the comments box. But she didn’t have any answers on the day she’d gotten home, and she still didn’t.
The incessant pinging continued as the comments box exploded with text. She caught one question before it got bounced up the ladder of messages.
Are you getting divorced?
Divorce.
Her traitorous mind conjured the image of Landon singing Aria to sleep as if it enjoyed torturing her by parsing through her memories and doling out doozies sure to ratchet up her anguish.
As much as she wanted to maintain that bubble of bliss the three of them had created, she couldn’t stay with Landon.
