When I finally stumble outside, the night air hits me hard. My vision swims, stomach twisting.
“Whoa, easy there.” Strong hands steady me — I blink up, expecting Jasper.
It’s not him.
It’s no one.
I push away, heels scraping the pavement, and make it home somehow.
---
“Brittany!” My mother’s voice slices through the haze as I trip through the front door at 3 a.m.
She’s waiting in the foyer, arms crossed, face tight with fury.
“Where the hell have you been?” she demands.
“Out,” I mutter, kicking off my shoes.
“With who? Another stranger? Another headline waiting to happen?”
I sink onto the staircase, head in my hands. My skin feels too tight, my heart racing.
“Your brother is working night and day to protect this family, and you can’t keep your legs closed for five minutes—”
“Stop,” I whisper.
But she doesn’t stop.
“You’re a disgrace, Brit. You’ve thrown away everything — your career, your reputation—”
“Stop!” I shout, bolting up. My head spins; black dots dance at the edge of my vision.
She recoils slightly, lips pressed in a thin line. “Get some sleep. God knows you need it.”
I stagger up the stairs, past Jasper’s closed door. I hear Janice’s laugh inside — soft, silvery, intimate.
I pause for a moment, pressing my forehead to the cool wood.
“Jas?” I whisper.
No answer.
Of course not.
---
The next morning, I stand in front of the mirror, pinching the skin at my waist, frowning at the slight curve of my stomach. I skip breakfast, claiming I’m late, and head to the shoot.
Hours later, under the blinding studio lights, my vision blurs.
“Brit, babe, lift your chin — no, higher — no, don’t slouch — suck in that tummy, there we go!”
The photographer’s voice is a sharp, relentless command.
By the time we wrap, I can barely stand. My stomach cramps violently, but I keep smiling, keep posing, keep laughing on cue.
It’s almost over.
