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Grabbing my phone, I start checking my notifications. I’m tagged in a bunch of stuff. All articles blowing our cover about our legally drawn-up fake relationship put together only to sell albums and make us famous.
Ouch.
There are texts from my mom, Rachel, my dad. A couple of voice mails that I somehow missed. Oh, one from my lawyer’s office.
It’s a lot. Too much.
“Keep quiet. Don’t leave the house. Roger is sending extra security over there as we speak. Don’t say a word to anyone, not even security. What if they ratted you out?”
“They wouldn’t. They probably believe we’re real. We’ve given them enough evidence,” Tate says wryly.
“I’ll call you back. I’m going to reach out to Roger and see if we can put together a meeting with the crisis team.” Simon ends the call.
The silence is deafening. I’m reading an article about us, the details becoming a blur because they’re so awful. Full of triggering words likebogus.Exposed.Trick.Fake.
Fake, fake, fake.
“This is bad,” Tate finally says, and I look at him, noting how pale he is, his phone open to one of the articles about us. “We look... really fucking bad.”
“I know,” I murmur, glancing back down at my phone, which lights up with a call from my dad.
I don’t want to answer it. My heart is in my throat, and panic makes me sweaty.
I hit accept anyway, bracing myself for my father to start yelling.
“Scarlett, baby. Is this all true?” That’s how he greets me.
I clutch my phone to my ear with trembling fingers, swallowing hard. “Well, it—it was.”
“What the hell does that mean? And why didn’t my lawyer tell me about this?” he roars.
“I’m eighteen. I hired my own lawyer,” I tell him, wincing when he starts talking right over me.
“Your mother and I let you leave with this loser to go to Los Angeles to what? Play at a relationship so he can gain more fans for his upcoming album? Scarlett, he completely used you.”
“He didn’t.” I turn so my back is to Tate, hating how my dad’s words ring true. No matter how much I don’t want to believe it—I’m living the experience; I know Tate cares about me—it still sounds awful.
“He did. Oh, I know you think you gained something out of it too, but he’s the winner in this situation. Did you at least get financially compensated for this agreement?”
We never really talked about money. I never did it for that. Originally I did it to get away from the very man who’s currently yelling at me. I did it for attention.
I did it for myself.
“It wasn’t about money,” I start, but I’m cut off by my father’s laughter.
“Oh, Scarlett. I always thought you were a smart girl, but you’ve handled this all wrong. That boy owes you big time. He can afford it. I gave him enough money for that goddamn performance. Or did he blow it all already on drugs and alcohol?”
“He’s not like that anymore,” I bite out. “And this is all your fault. You’re the one who brought him into our lives. And now look what happened.”
“I didn’t tell you to run away with him and pretend to be a happy couple for public consumption! That’s on you, Scarlett. Your mother is beside herself. She feels guilty that she let you go.”
“There was no letting me go. I was going to do it whether you guys liked it or not,” I tell him, throwing my head back so I can stare at the ceiling. I’m suddenly exhausted.
Overwhelmed.
“You think you know better because you’re eighteen, and now you’re finding out you don’t know shit about life. Come home, Scarlett. We can call up the jet and fly you home so you don’t have to deal with public scrutiny,” Dad says.
“It’s too late for that.” I can literally hear the sound of car doors slamming outside. The low murmur of voices.
