Page 9 of The Wreckage Of Us


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One night, after another brutal event where strangers ogled me like a prize cow, I found myself on the patio, breathing in the cold night air.

"You're freezing."

I jumped. Ace Rivera leaned against the railing, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. He wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn’t even supposed to be in town.

"Go away," I muttered, hugging my arms tighter around myself.

He didn’t.

"You looked... uncomfortable tonight," he said, voice low.

I laughed bitterly. "Gee, thanks for noticing."

He flicked the cigarette away and stepped closer. "Why do you let them do this to you?"

I stiffened. "You don't know anything."

His jaw ticked. "I know you’re better than this."

Tears stung my eyes, but I blinked them away. "I’m doing what I have to."

"Bullshit."

I shoved past him, but he caught my wrist, gentle but firm.

"Brit."

The way he said my name—rough, broken—it cracked something inside me.

"You think you know everything?" I snapped, spinning on him. "You have no idea what it’s like. Being invisible unless I’m perfect."

He stared at me, breathing hard. "I see you."

The world tilted.

I yanked my hand free and ran inside before I did something stupid.

Like kiss him.

The next day, I stood on a new set, draped in expensive silk and drowning in photographers shouting directions.

I swayed on my feet.

"Brittany! Look this way! Arch your back! No—more! More!"

I tried. God, I tried.

But the edges of my vision blurred. The floor rushed up to meet me.

Blackness.

When I woke up, it was Ace pacing at the foot of the bed.

Not Mom. Not Dad.

Ace.

"You passed out," he said roughly. "Probably because you haven't eaten more than a crumb all week."