Page 71 of Dream On

Every day, I become less and less of a person and more of a product. A polished, marketable image that everyone recognizes but no one really knows. The smiles, the photo ops, the endless interviews—they all blur together into a haze of expectations I can’t escape. I plaster on a grin and play the part, but inside, I feel like I’m fading, losing the pieces of myself that once mattered. The parts that made me real.

I hardly remember who I used to be, and sometimes I wonder if I was ever anything other than this.

Waving off a slew of paparazzi surrounding my building—some camped out with sleeping bags, pillows, and a minimart of snacks—I hightail it through the main entrance, my vision veined with flashbulbs. Another body pushes through behind me.

“Are you going to the charity event next month, or will you be in Saint Lucia?” I ask my mother, stepping into the elevator filled with a few other residents wearing tuxedos and sequined dresses.

“Of course I’ll be there. Saint Lucia will always be waiting.” She pauses. “You should come along. You could use a vacation.”

Sipping cocktails on sandy beaches with my mother and this week’s boyfriend sounds like the opposite of a vacation. “Maybe.”

I’m vaguely aware of heels clicking behind me as I exit the elevator and swerve down the white-walled hallway to my condo on the thirteenth floor.

The moment I enter, a pitchy voice rings out behind me.

“Oh my God. This view!”

Shit—I forgot there was a woman with me.

Long blond hair bounces mid-back as she runs over to the expansive window and peers out through the glass.

Oops.

My mother distracted me, and now there’s a girl in my condo whose name eludes me. “Mom, I gotta go. Text Luda about the Gucci shit.”

“Armani.”

“Yeah, that guy.”

She says three words before I disconnect. “I love you.”

“I know.” I click off the video call and pocket my phone, glancing up at the random chick flitting around the room like a frantic butterfly. “Uh, sorry. You can go now.”

My date for the evening turns to look at me from the floor-to-ceiling window, her expression steeped in bewilderment as backlight silhouettes her tall frame. “What?”

“I said you’re off the hook. Have a good night.”

“Off the hook?” She gapes at me, a scoff-like sound skating past her lips. “But I thought—”

“Oh, here’s some cash.” I pull a wad of money out of my wallet and toss it on the coffee table before collapsing onto the sprawling graphite-gray sofa that faces the window. Reaching for a cigarette, I light one up and inhale a deep drag.

“You’repayingme?” Her gaze pans around the opulent space, then settles on me. Scorn fills her eyes. “I’m not a prostitute.”

Well, we never fucked. Therefore, she is not a prostitute.

Her deduction skills are on point at least.

“Okay.” Smoke billows from orange embers as I tip my head toward the ceiling of my high-rise. The adrenaline dies out with each puff of nicotine as I close my eyes and wait for her to leave. Maybe she’s looking for a thank-you. “Thanks, Lindy.”

“It’s Mindy.” A beat passes before I hear stilettos click across the luxury stone tile, followed by an angry huff. “Elise warned me about you. Said you were a complete dick.”

“How am I a dick? I said thank you, and you’re getting paid top dollarfor minimum-requirement work.” There is no easier job than being someone’s eye candy for a night. Squinting through the smoke, I pull in another drag. Elise must have been last week’s date that went nowhere. “Adrian will take you home. He’s the guy in the limo. Dark hair, mustache, pushing fifty—”

“I know who he is, asshole. He’s been driving us around all night.” She stomps over to the rectangular coffee table, as much as one can stomp in high-ass heels. Shoving the pile of money into her purse, she flips her hair over her shoulder and sends me a scathing glare. “I hope your show tanks.”

With that, Lindy disappears out the door, slamming it shut.

I frown.