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I come to a halt and just stare at her. My fingers curl and uncurl by my sides as I try to keep my composure.
“What happened?” I ask, my molars pressing together as the rage builds inside of me.
Did somebody say something to her? Did somebody try to touch her? Because if they did—
“I didn’t realize it was you, so I figured—”
“Not that,” I bite out. Unable to hold back my fury, I cross the last few inches between us and gently slide my fingers under her chin, lifting it so she turns to me. “Why are you crying?”
“Oh, it’s not—”
“You’recrying,” I repeat. There is no way I’d let her brush this off. If somebody said something to her, I’d make sure they knew they’d have to deal with me. I didn’t care if it was a reporter or one of our classmates. Nobody messes with what’s mine.
And Penelope is mine.
Another tear slides down her cheek. I watch as it shines under the light coming from the window for a split second before I wipe it away with my thumb.
“What happened?” I ask, this time gentler.
“It’s silly. I know I shouldn’t let it bother me, but…”
I slide onto the bench next to her and pull her into my lap, my palms cupping her cheeks. “It’s not silly if it made you sad.” Penelope wasn’t a crier. She was resilient and strong. Whatever happened must have upset her a lot if it made her cry, and I wanted to know what it was. “What happened, Birdy?”
She tries to look away, but I don’t let her. “Birdy.” Her name comes out more like a frustrated growl.
“They know who I am,” she says softly, so softly it takes me a moment to recognize her words.
“They… Paparazzi?”
As a rule, I stayed away from any kind of social media. I didn’t look up my name. I didn’t read articles about me; most were speculations and half-truths at best.
I should have looked.
“Yeah, I guess so. That would explain…”
Her teeth sank into her lower lip, stopping her from whatever she wanted to say.
Alarm bells ring in my mind as I watch emotions play on her face.
“That would explain what, Penelope?”
She makes a little sound. “It’s never good when you use my full name.”
“Then you better spill and fast.”
“There were some comments… on my Instagram.”
“Comments? What—”
The words die on my lips as realization hits me.
Hate comments.
Reporters, or hell, maybe even fans, found out who the mystery girl was, so they dug out everything there was to know about Penelope, including her social media, only to leave hate comments on her profile.
“Show me.” My jaw clenches so tightly I’m surprised it doesn’t break.
“Sebastian, it’s fi—”
