Page 75 of Dream On

“I got my closure.” I glance around at the marketing crew as they pretend to play on their phones. “I made the damn show. I’m good now.”

“We can always do more. Push this harder, keep the buzz going, make history—”

“Find another way.”

I move to storm out of the suite, flipping him off over my shoulder. But his next words sever my exit, have me careening to a full stop in the doorway, then doing a one-eighty spin, nostrils flaring, every muscle locking up.

“I already called her.”

Chapter 20

Stevie

Less than a week later, I am the trending headline on every social media outlet. Practically a household name.

While Lex changed my name to Sylvia Simmons in the series—played by his radiant costar, Willa Farrow—it wasn’t hard for greedy reporters to track down the real Sylvia. Lex made it easy for them. He detailed our high school story, theMoulin Rouge!performance, and even the car accident, in which he tweaked the true events to fit his narrative. All it took was a few blabbermouths from my hometown to spill the beans after his show skyrocketed to number one on the streaming platform.

“I went to school with them!”

“Stevie St. James was my best friend!”

“I always knew she and Lex were secretly a couple!”

I feel sick.

I can’t keep up with the tags, texts, and phone calls from obscure numbers. And while I’ve managed to block as many as I can, they keep coming. It’s an endless invasion of privacy.

I’m mid–panic attack when Misty comes barreling through my apartment door with Joplin on her heels as I’m getting ready for my shift at the piano bar.

“Oh my God, Stevie. You’re famous!”

I poke my head out of the box-size bathroom, all the blinds drawn closed,the handmade curtains blocking out any trace of light. Running a flat iron through my hair, I blink at the two faces staring back at me from the hallway.

Misty’s nose scrunches up. “You look like you’re going to puke.”

Ugh.

“Thanks. And here I thought this was a step up from my prior look of cattle pajamas, ice cream stains, and simmering depression.”

Joplin shoves Misty aside and skips over to me. “She was pounding down the apartment door outside. You’ve been dodging everyone’s calls and messages. I had no choice but to let her in before she filed a missing person’s report.” She sends me a look of apology. “Sorry.”

I pull the cord from the outlet and smooth out my baby hairs. “Are there reporters outside? Did they find me?”

“You’re in the clear for now.”

Misty flips a section of red hair over her shoulder, immediately zipping around the apartment to straighten and organize. “I’ll happily sign autographs for you. Oh! Can I be your assistant? Best friends turned business partners in the wake of fame and fortune. It has a catchy ring.”

Glancing at my reflection in the mirror, I accept that I do look pukey, despite the makeup and freshly blow-dried hair, and flip off the bathroom light. “You’re talking like this is a good thing. My big break or something.”

“Isn’t it?” Misty finds a mysterious duster underneath the couch and starts cleaning ledges and random surfaces. “This is what you’ve always wanted.”

My face burns.

No, it’s not.

And it kills me because Ididwant this life; I dreamed about it, every day.

But I never wanted it like this.