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Hang in there and try talking to him.

I start typing another message, telling her I love her, but my phone rings, and it’s Chase. I send it straight to voicemail.

It rings again. I sigh and answer.

“I don’t want to talk to you right now.”

“Yet, here we are,” Chase says. “I guess you made it okay to New York.”

“Yes, thank you. I just finished a run in Central Park.”

“Keep your wits about you. Don’t fucking daydream in the city, for God’s sake.”

I almost smile. “I have to go to work. Can we hang up now?”

“Yeah, but before we do, I have something to say.”

I sigh. “Go ahead. It’s not like I can stop you.” I could hang up, but I won’t do that to him.

“This is not the time for you to pull a Lux and go back to the old bullshit just because you’re heartbroken.”

Heat storms my face, and this time, it has nothing to do with how much I’ve run. He means Mateo. What a fucking ass.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I say. I hate that he’s judging me while I’m fighting for my sanity.

“You know damn well. I heard you’re working with Mateo—” He dares say the name.

And the red-hot-anger dam breaks. He’s not going to throw my fuckups in my face. Not today.

“You know what, Chase? I don’t take every opportunity I get to keep reminding you about the many, many, many times you screwed up in the past. I don’t go pointing a finger and tell you not to go get in street races or fights until you almost die. Or go get punched in the face until you black out. Just because I messed up doesn’t give you a right to throw Mateo in my face every chance you get. So kindly fuck off, and take your brother with you.” I hang up on him and shove my phone into my coat pocket.

It keeps ringing until I go into the subway station. I put it on airplane mode. Unfortunately, you have to be alert on the subway, and I can’t go back to meditating. So, I find a more constructive meditation that allows me to be aware and channel my anger.

Fuck you, Chase.

Fuck you, Cam.

Fuck you, Noris.

Fuck you to hell, Mateo.

Fuck you, Ollie.

I repeat it over and over and over through my subway ride, when I get to Big Apple, as I shower in their bathroom, as I sit in the makeup chair. I barely talk to the glam team. Everyone must sense how annoyed I am, because no one says anything but pleasantries and leaves me to my thoughts.

They bring me coffee, and I even eat a croissant and a piece of cheese—hangry on top of pissed is not a good combination.

I’m fully dressed in the clothes I chose for today: Valentino tweed jacket, $5 fitted red top that whispers above the waistline of my dark-blue, $14 jeans, and burgundy patent-leather Aquazzura pumps with cutouts on the sides. My lips are lined and painted in Boss Bitchy dark berry from Lash N’ Gloss. It’s a sleek “going to war” look that fits my mood. I send a test shot to Lauren. Her husband is on my shit list, but she’s still my go-to.

Lauren

Long live my boss queen.

It makes me smile for the first time today. I’m still doing so when footsteps echo on the carpeted floor, and then Mimi, Mateo, and his publicist, Maeven, walk in the room. And the rage levels on my bitch-o-meter spike to dangerous.

Mimi is smart enough to stay back. The smile on her face is lukewarm, but there’s a deep strain in her eyes. She knows she has burned the bridge between us when she forced me to do this, and as my agent assures me, she’s desperate to win me back over.

Good luck with that, bitch.