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“A little whipped cream accident?” Briar, of course, heads straight for the kitchen and she’s now gaping at me, arms folded across her chest. “What the hell happened in here?”

Twelve

Willow

I swipe at my hair, hearing the clink clink clink of sprinkles hitting the sink and counter and sigh, knowing I’ve made a huge mistake.

Hudson’s kitchen…

Oh, it’s a mess.

And he’s going to be mad?—

“No,” I whisper, eyes flicking up to the mirror.

He’d be mad if I thought that.

If I believed that.

Because he’s annoyed when I cower, when I ask if it’s okay to eat something or go to bed or shower or wash my hair or…well, any of the things Dylan used to demand I ask permission for.

He doesn’t get it.

I sigh again.

I guess I don’t really get it either—even though I lived it.

How I let myself get ensnared so deeply. How I allowed myself to be made so small.

So pathetic.

I stare at my reflection, at my pale blue eyes, my blond hair. I’m objectively beautiful—something I know because I’ve seen my face blown up on a huge movie screen, large enough to dissect any flaws, to understand that mine add to the allure. It’s something I know because I’ve seen the comments on social media, heard the red carpet interviewers dish about my body and face from the time I was a child.

A beauty.

Could be a model.

Are there people who think I’m hideous? Probably (no, definitely—something I also saw plenty of on social media). But they’re trolls, people who live to tear others down.

I don’t care what they think.

Because all I do care about is what Hudson thinks when he looks at me.

Does he see that beauty?

Or does he only look at me with pity, with sympathy, maybe even with derision?

I won the genetic lottery, but I definitely won’t be winning any awards when it comes to growing a spine.

Pathetic teenage TV & movie star.

Pathetic adult—and I mean that strictly in the sense of being over eighteen—television & film star.

Sure, I have a pretty face and a great body…but I want him to see me for me.

“Ugh,” I mutter, dropping my hands to the counter, dislodging more sprinkles in rapid plinks that hit the granite, the tile. “I don’t even know who the hell I am, how can I possibly ask Hudson to see the real me?”

Unable to hold my gaze in the mirror—or witness the accusation in my own eyes—I focus on getting cleaned up.