Page 2 of The Road to You

But the image is still there, with Preston and Ronan passionately kissing, seared into my mind. I feel my perfect morning, my perfect life, shaking so hard I’m sure it will soon shatter.

I let Tabia in and close the door behind her. The paparazzi who had swarmed my gate this morning are now more insistent than ever, and I can’t shake the fear that one of them might try to jump over the perimeter wall. My hands are shaking as I turn the lock.

Tabia smiles gently before wrapping me in a tight hug.

Her soothing hand moves in slow circles on my back, and it’s a miracle I don’t shatter right there on her shoulder.

I pull away and guide her into the living room, collapsing beside her on the couch.

A bottle of wine sits on the coffee table with two glasses already waiting.

“Have you heard from your publicist yet?” she asks, picking up where our phone call ended less than two hours ago.

I nod, grabbing the bottle and filling both glasses. I hand one to her.

“Greta called. She said they’re already working on damage control.” My voice is hoarse, every word scratching its way up my throat.

Tabia’s dark eyes study me over the rim of her glass.

Concern is taking up every inch of her face.

She’s searching for a hint of how I’m holding up, but the truth is, I’m numb.

I didn’t even cry when I got home. I just plugged in my dead phone and sifted through the flood of messages from Greta, switching from shock to management mode without ever truly processing what happened.

Preston cheated on me. And he didn’t just cheat, he humiliated me publicly. I can’t tell what hurts more: the betrayal or the fact that the downfall of my personal life is plastered on gossip sites for everyone to see.

“That’s it? Just ‘damage control’?” Tabia’s voice tightens, and I can practically see the wheels turning in her mind, ready to call Greta herself and demand more action.

I take a long sip of wine, letting the warm feeling it ignites settle me before answering. “She talked me through all the steps they’ve already put in motion, and what comes next depends on Preston’s response. But basically, I’m supposed to lay low and wait for the storm to pass.”

Tabia sighs, and frustration veils her expression. “Did you hear from him?”

Her voice is soft and careful, like she knows the precarious balance I’m clinging to.

She should. We’ve known each other for ten years, ever since I moved to Los Angeles at twenty with a dream of becoming a famous actress.

She was my roommate back then, my first supporter through every audition and rejection.

She’s seen me fight tooth and nail for everything I have, and she knows that when I break, I break hard.

I shake my head, and a fresh wave of bitterness crashes into my chest. “I know he’s seen my texts, but every time I call, it goes straight to voicemail. He won’t even give me the courtesy of a conversation.”

“What an asshole,” she mutters into her glass, her tone low and deadly.

The silence stretches between us. I swirl the wine in my glass and stare at the red liquid catching the light. This morning, I woke up feeling like the luckiest woman in the world. Now, it feels like fate sucker-punched me for even thinking such a thing.

“It doesn’t feel real,” I admit. “I mean, I saw the pictures, I know it is. But not hearing it from him feels like I’m living someone else’s nightmare, not my own.”

“Do you want me to call him? I can be scary when I want,” she offers, and I know she means it.

With her six-foot-tall frame and statuesque beauty, she can be intimidating, especially when she puts on her “model mask,” as she calls it.

That blank, impassive expression she wears on the runway that can make even the most confident men squirm.

I huff a sad laugh. “He knows your number. If he doesn’t want to face me, he won’t face you either. That’s just him. If he doesn’t say it out loud, then it’s not real. Nothing is happening.”

It’s a trait I’ve never liked about him. That ability to slip into denial and hide from anything unpleasant. I was foolish enough to think he’d change. What a joke.

Tabia scoffs, and her disdain is sharp enough to cut. “Did you know he was into men?”

Coming from anyone else, that question would have stung, but not from her.

“Not a clue.” I shake my head. I’ve replayed that thought in my mind a hundred times since I saw those pictures, but no clues ever stood out.

I feel like a fool for that, but I don’t even know if there are telltale signs that someone is into both genders.

That’s not even the point. He cheated, that’s the thing I hate, not with whom.

“You know what’s worse?” I don’t wait for her to respond.

The words tumble out before I can hold them back.

“Now I’m stuck in this house for the entire summer because every time I step outside, they’ll be on me like vultures.

I don’t even know how to face our friends.

What are they thinking? What are they saying behind my back? ”

Tabia places a warm hand on my knee, setting her glass down on the coffee table. “Don’t worry about what other people think. It’s clear as day that he’s the one in the wrong. And if your friends can’t see that, they’re not worth keeping around.”

Her reasoning is rock solid, but the ache in my chest doesn’t ease.

“And as for the summer,” she continues, “why don’t you fly to my apartment in Milan? It’s empty, and you could use the break. Get away from the paparazzi, recharge without feeling like a prisoner in your own home.”

I let the idea sink into my mind. I can almost taste the freedom. The thought of wandering Milan’s streets without paparazzi following me feels too good to be true. I could finally breathe without cameras flashing in my face, without gossip following me everywhere I go.

“I might take you up on that.” For the first time all day, I feel something like relief. This could be a way out of this nightmare, and a spark of hope ignites in my chest.