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Nova
Pictures of the celebrity duo are all over the internet.
The caption reads: “Justice Bran and Hope Collins are the hottest couple to wed this year.”
A few photos mention me, the ex-girlfriend and how I’ve been MIA ever since Justice and Hope’s Vegas wedding made the news.
Does he not care that he’s openly hurting me?
The worst part is they look good together. Him a pop-star sensation and her a model.
A bump in the road jostles me, stealing my attention from my phone. The SUV pulls through the gates to Grandma Gia’s—Gigi, as she prefers—California mansion.
I let out a breath and my tightly wound muscles relax for the first time since this nightmare started.
Gigi’s estate is the perfect place for me to hide and let the hype die around my disaster of a life. My grandma’s mansion has more security than Fort Knox. No worrying about paparazzi or plain ol’ haters shouting at me. Here I am protected. Here I am safe.
When Gigi was in her early twenties, she starred in a movie that made her a Hollywood sex symbol. That status made her an A-list actor and put her on the radar of a certifiable stalker. The lunatic broke into her Beverly Hills mansion and masturbated on her bed. The police never identified or caught the man, and Gigi was never the same.
She moved to this estate in Santa Barbara for the secluded lot and fortress-like wall surrounding the property, and made security and protection her top priority.
Ben, Gigi’s personal driver, parks the SUV near the detached four-car garage and opens my door for me.
I get out and stretch, my muscles stiff from the long flight. Warm sun caresses my body. Even in April, the temperature is beautiful here. No clouds, or snow, or rain, or frigid gusts like on the East Coast. When it comes to the perfect weather, Southern California never fails to deliver.
I meet Ben at the back of the SUV, where he unloads my luggage and closes the hatch with the press of a button. “I’ll have this sent to your room, Miss.”
“Nova,” I correct him for the second time. “We’ve known each other for too long for you to call me Miss.” Ben has worked for Gigi since before I was born.
“Forgive me, Nova. It’s been awhile. You’re all grown up now, and your mother prefers the formalities.”
“Yes, but I’m not my mother, nor do I strive to be.” I smile.
Ben ducks his head, probably embarrassed by my remark.
I didn’t mean to make him feel uncomfortable; it’s just nothing about me screams my mother. She’s tall, lean, and beautiful. She looks stylish, even when working out, and wouldn’t be caught dead in a tie-dye sweatshirt dress, sneakers, and no makeup.
I follow him as he rolls my luggage toward the side door of the main house—not that I need him to show me the way. I lived here during my elementary school years. It seems smaller, though, which is silly. The mansion has nine bedrooms, twelve bathrooms, seven fireplaces, a tennis court, an Olympic-size pool, and picturesque grounds with landscaping that looks straight out of Tuscany.
It’s also surrounded by mansions of equal grandeur and size, or bigger. Oprah has an estate a few blocks away in Montecito, along with other celebrity heavyweights who favor land and privacy.
“Do you know which room Gigi put me in, by any chance?” I ask Ben before we enter, hopeful it’s the Caribbean suite.
“I wouldn’t know.”
He removes his hat, his white hair shocking me for a moment. Last time I saw him, he had a head of thick salt-and-pepper hair.
“I’m sure Inez knows. She has it all worked out.”
“Of course she does.” The Guatemalan woman runs the house and knows everything about anything that concerns guests, security, visitors, and even the weather. She’s like a human Alexa for the estate.
Ben opens the side door for me.
“Thank you.” I enter into a black-and-white marble tiled entry.
Ben sets my luggage inside the door and nods at the other door across the room. “Inez should be in the kitchen.”