Page 89 of PR Stunt

He doesn’t wait for a response before heading toward the garage, grabbing his keys from the counter as he moves. I follow, keeping my distance as he heads straight for the black suv parked near the entrance. I slide into the passenger seat, tucking my dress over my lap and tossing my shoes on the floor beside my feet as he starts the engine.

The silence between us stretches.

By the time we pull up to my place, I’m already reaching for the door handle, needing distance. But before I step out, I glance down, realizing I’m still wrapped in his hoodie.

“Keep it,” he says simply.

I hesitate, fingers curling into the fabric. Finally, I say softly, “Thanks for…everything.” I slip out of the car, still barefoot.

The second the front door shuts behind me, I exhale, pressing my back against it before sliding down, heels dropping to the hardwood floor with a quiet thud. I pull my knees to my chest, still wrapped in his hoodie, the fabric oversized and warm, the sleeves swallowing my hands.

I stare down at it, at his hoodie, bunched in my lap like it might anchor me. My fingers curl into the fabric. They love me when I’m polished. Scripted. Easy to admire from a distance. But the moment I flinch, or speak too loudly, or care too much, they pull back. I’m the golden girl until I’m not. And by they, I mean all of it. The press. The fans. The executives who call it “branding” but really just want a version of me that fits neatly into their narrative. It’s a game I’ve learned to play: Smile, perform, and don’t let them see the cracks.

Because when you do? They make you pay for it.

Even after years of therapy, years of telling myself their opinions don’t define me, it still sneaks in. The feeling that if I mess up, even a little, I’ll lose everything. That no matter how hard I work, it’s never enough. And maybe that’s why I never let anyone too close. Because what if no one loves the version of me that isn’t camera-ready?

Lauren’s words echo, cruel and calculated. But it’s not just her. It’s the world I chose. Where being human isn’t an option. And vulnerability? It’s ammunition. Grayson hasn’t let go, but sometimes I wonder if that’s because he has to hold on. He’s only seen the parts I allow. Polished vulnerability. Not the full picture. Not the version of me that shatters when no one’s watching. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the tears to go back where they came from. I don’t want to cry over this and sure as hell don’t want to be jealous. I tighten my grip on the sleeve, pull it closer to my chest like it might protect me. And then, in barely a whisper, I say, “This was never real, anyway.”

Chapter 26

“Oh my God… Teleport me to Mexico,” Sienna sighs dramatically, shifting through the clothing rack in my bedroom. “Which town are you going to again?”

“Sayulita,” I reply before taking a sip of my coffee and watching her do her thing. The rack in front of her is a carefully curated mix of beachy and night out looks. Shimmery two-piece sets, gauzy white dresses, breezy cover-ups.

Sienna pulls a fiery red knit two-piece from the rack, tilting her head. “This, with gold hoops, slicked-back hair, and that rattan clutch.” She holds it up like a prize. “So cute.”

She flips past it, stopping at a delicate white crocheted dress. Then a barely there black swimsuit paired with an ivory sarong, gold-rimmed sunglasses hooked onto the hanger.

“Okay, but this,” she says, turning to me with a slow grin, “is going to have Grayson on his knees.”

I respond too fast. “Never happening.”

I set my coffee cup down on the nightstand, like that somehow makes the declaration more final.

Sienna raises a brow, but I ignore it. It’s been three days since the gala, and I still haven’t fully shaken everything that went down. Even Pilates, running, and reading, my usual cure-alls, haven’t cleared my head. I haven’t seen or spoken to Grayson since that night. He called once, but I didn’t pick up. I wouldn’t even know what to say. It’s not like we ever talk casually—apart from after the gala, but I blame the weight of that night for that.

If it’s not crucial for pr, I want nothing to do with it.

Sienna flips through more hangers. “That photo—or should I say photos.” She glances at me. “The one of you two kissing? Or the one of you mad dashing down the gala steps, looking like something pulled from a script.”

I let out a deep breath and flop onto my bed, landing on my back. I grab the pillow beside me and pull it over my face. Mexico. His premiere. Then I’m finally done. Good riddance.

“This,” she announces, “is perfect for a night out.”

“Yeah, sounds great,” I murmur, still buried under my pillow fort.

My phone buzzes beside me. I slide the pillow off my face just enough to check the screen. A text from Anna. Be there in 2. I sigh and drop the pillow back over my head. I finally caved and gave her a key, considering how often she just shows up. I hear the front door open downstairs and then the familiar sound of heels clicking against the wood floor.

“Hey, Anna!” Sienna greets her warmly.

Finally abandoning my pillow, I say hi to Anna.

Anna gives Sienna a quick hug before glancing over the clothes. “These are nice,” she says, nodding in approval. “I like the beige crochet set.”

Anna turns to me. “So…when exactly were you going to tell me that you and Grayson planned that kiss?”

My stomach tightens. “We didn’t,” I bite out, sharper than I mean to.