I'm in love with Matt Crain.

This is not a problem.

I realize it when we're standing in the line at my favorite bakery, arms almost touching. This is enough.

We get recognized, but I don't mind. I partner up with them regularly and, since it's a family-owned business, I'm happy they're finally getting traction.

It's been weird coming to terms with my fame and influence being able to create good things too. All my career, I've been laser-focused on the bad—the lack of a private life, the entitlement, the endless discussions and narratives spun around me. I can't go anywhere without hearing the distinct click of a camera in the background or without knowing it won't be food for thought by the time I'm sitting down.

Sometimes, that influence can be good. It can help other voices be heard in situations where they wouldn't be. People call it using my platform for the good; I call it amplifying quieter voices. It helps when I need some validation and ego boosting (hey, we've all been there) and I look up nice things people have said about me.

It shocked me to see how many nice things people can say. There's so much good in the human heart and it's shattering to know it's either devalued or taken advantage of. But I've learned to not take that love for granted, whether it comes from the fans, my industry peers, critics, or random people with access to the Internet.

Love is fickle. But not always.

So I started promoting the store. No strings attached, no publicity or marketing campaign lurking in the shadows. I've had enough of those. I posted about them more and more, documented my trips and hauls, and refused to get a discount for myself. Everyone else can use it (use ESME20 for a 20% discount on your purchase), but I pay full price. I tip.

It blew up.

People wanted to see what the fuss was all about, since I simply could not keep my mouth shut about it. They started flocking there like sheep, grabby hands and salivating mouths sweeping over the display shelves, and they realized I knew what I was talking about.

Case in point: my boyfriend is gorgeous.

Which brings me to my current predicament: I'm in love with Matt Crain. He's not doing anything—he's just some (admittedly beautiful) guy standing next to me, debating what to order as if we haven't tried the entire menu—and, somehow, this is what hits me.

He examines the menu from a distance, lost in thought, and I look up at him in wonder. The realization hits me like a truck.

"Why do I only fall for losers?" I mutter, jokingly.

He sighs, shaking his head. "Don't call me a loser, sunshine. I'm the best thing you'll ever have."

"Case in point."

˗ˏˋ★‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

I'm getting everything I've ever wanted.

It's karma. Either that or poetic justice. Whatever it is, it finally feels like my life makes sense—all aspects of it—and, although it terrifies me to assume it's all downhill from here, I'm determined to enjoy this moment.

I don't want to think of this as my peak. At twenty-three, surely I'll climb higher mountains and achieve more, but this is enough for now. I have the friends, the film, the reputation. I have the guy. Most importantly, I have myself.

Sadie fixed everything.

It's been a long, winding battle that she has been fighting behind my back, getting lawyers involved and threatening Oakley's team with a cease and desist if he didn't leave me alone.

It started before the film was wrapped up.

While I was being slandered and sobbed on the phone with her, she was already looking for a way out to protect me. She collected evidence, contacted executives, and pulled all the necessary strings behind the scenes. Then, she sat back and watched chaos unfold. She used Oakley's ego against him.

The PR strategy was genuine. Sadie and Kirk saw the potential in our chemistry and there's no doubt it worked—in more ways than one, as I have a real boyfriend now—but it came with extra advantages.

Oakley saw the photos, the conversations.

He panicked, thinking we were doing it to spite him, and spiraled. He became even more insufferable, demanding a song on the soundtrack of Absolutely! because, quoting him, I owed him for smearing his name. They let them have it, but were resentful; rich men don't take lightly to a B-list pop star trying to intimidate them.

An A-list pop star is a different story.

Lottie came through with receipts. Through social media sleuthing and her natural charisma, she found the girls Oakley had cheated on me with. She also found former girlfriends, who had gone through the same. They gave their statements, while the other girls declared they didn't want the same thing to happen to them and apologized profusely.

The crème de la crème is the video footage. There are videos of the cheating with timestamps, which have gone viral. Her video of him grabbing me and punching Matt has been the final nail in the coffin.

The song was cut. Lottie wrote her own.

I don't think she likes it much, no matter how much we tried telling her it's wonderful. It's an uplifting, bubblegum pop hit, one that gets stuck in your head, and perfectly matches the bubbly, relaxed vibe of the movie.

It's a romantic comedy, but it has heart. It has soul. Everyone involved gave so much to make it happen and now she's part of the family too. Even if she did it as a favor, fully convinced that she could have done something to fix the situation before Sadie had to get involved, I've never held a grudge against her. Never did I think she was at fault.

This is Oakley's fault. He made his decisions and dug his grave. Sadie helped flatten the ground above it and performed an entire dance routine on top of it, since he didn't deserve a funeral march.

I spit on that grave. Every day. It's cathartic.

"You have nothing to apologize for," I tell Lottie, for the millionth time. She came over so we could finish getting ready together, refusing to let Matt in the apartment the whole day like we're getting married (my heart does a backflip just by thinking of marrying him), but she's been worrying more than she has been doing her makeup. "Lot, you're fine."

"The song is so subpar," she complains, sitting on my bed. At least she's already dressed, looking stunning in a pastel yellow gown, dark curls pinned into an elegant updo. Half of her makeup is done, thankfully; I can't afford to be late to the premiere. "It's shit."

"It's been getting glowing reviews."

"Because it's being compared to whatever piece of trash Oakland"—I don't correct her; it's something she picked up from Matt—"wrote. Everyone wants to drag him through the mud. As they should, of course. I can't help but feel like I was meddling. It didn't concern me at all. But I was so pissed at him for what he was doing and how he was getting away with it. I didn't know Sadie had been pulling the strings all along."

"He brought it upon himself. You did your job."

"I leaked a video. I went after strangers on social media for gossip. It makes me no different from the people we criticize."

I look at her. Properly look at her, not just a quick glance or a look in her general direction.

She's still touring, so her being here should be a fun, albeit brief break from her insane schedule. Even when she's on the road, she's writing. When she's not on tour, she's working. I don't know when she last got a proper night of sleep and it shows, not just on her face. It's in the way she talks, the way she moves, her posture.

The tour is almost over. Any other person would take the opportunity to rest, go on vacation to some nondescript place off the grid. But not Lottie.

Ever since I've known her, she's been married to her job. I know she loves it, everyone does; there's no ignoring the sheer happiness in her eyes or the grace in the way she all but floats on stage. The way she talks about songwriting and composing is enthralling, so much I'd pay to let her lull me to sleep. Passionate people are my kind of people.

Lottie takes it fifty steps further. She's a workaholic, but I know there's more to it. It's about associating your value as a person with your professional success, with the opinions of other people. If I've been struggling, she has it a million times worse. She's too exposed.

She pretends that she has it all figured out. She thinks she can take it.

So did I. Until the day I couldn't anymore.

"I love you so much," I tell her, sitting next to her. Her shoulders shake, like she's about to cry, but she takes a deep breath before emotions can overcome her. "You're one of the most important people in my life. You know that, right?"

"Yeah."

"And you're good. You're a good person with good intentions. You're fiercely loyal. You love with every fiber of your being, and it's not your fault people want to exploit it. There's nothing wrong with being soft or wanting to love and be loved. There is something wrong with refusing to redirect that love to yourself. I think you're exhausted. Mentally, emotionally. It's wearing you out."

Lottie Fitzpatrick. Golden girl. So beautiful, so kind. Yet so sad. I wish I could suck all the sadness out of her and dump it into Oakley.

Regrettably, I can't. But I would.

"I can take it," she says. She knows I don't believe her. "I'll survive the tour. I'll be okay."

I pull her into a tight hug, wishing she'd let me in. Wishing she'd allow herself to feel these emotions. "I'm here for you. No matter what." I press a kiss to her temple. "I love you more than Skye."

"No, you don't."

˗ˏˋ★‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

The Lottie situation (Lottieation, as Matt calls it) isn't solved by the time we leave my apartment and part ways.

Lottie needs to join her team, so we're driving in separate cars, which makes no sense to me. She could ride with me and meet them at the venue instead of getting an extra car, but everyone uses the same argument: it's for her safety.

I get it. I do. Lottie is famous famous. Her personal safety comes first. But no one is doing anything about her crumbling into pieces in front of the cameras, in broad daylight, on top of a stage in front of thousands of fans. They clap, and they cheer, and they demand more.

But riding with me is where they draw the line.

I haven't seen Matt all day, and I'm getting antsy. Nerves are building up, anticipating everything that could go wrong—I trip, fall, and rip my dress; the movie bombs; I'm dumped on the red carpet—and I close my hands into fists over my knees. My nails dig into my palms. Rooting. Steady.

Breathe.

The car rolls to a stop. In a few moments, they'll see me. They'll talk. I don't want to care, but I do; there's a pimple on my right cheek I'm fully convinced is the size of an eyeball ("dude, you can't even see it," Lottie assured me) and maybe I've smudged my mascara. It's waterproof, but still.

"You know, I'm proud of you," Sadie tells me. Outside the dark SUV, bright lights flash around us, cameras waiting to see me walk the red carpet. "You could've given up."

"But I didn't."

"No." She fixes my curtain bangs, then gently squeezes my shoulder. It's still sore, but it will be fine. Just like me. "I'm sorry for not telling you what I was doing, but it had to happen like this. I couldn't risk it getting out, and you tend to be quite . . . vocal when you're upset or stressed." That's true. "You did it, Esme. I hope you know I wouldn't leave you hanging. These men have gotten away with abhorrent behavior for too long."

Tears sting my eyes, and I can't stop myself from pulling her into a hug, even if she hates them. "Thank you so much."

She awkwardly pats my back, and then we're off.

The red carpet awaits.

As always, the lights blind me when I step out of the car. I take a deep breath, throw my hair over my shoulder, and fall into my usual routine of waving and smiling. Lights, camera, and smile.

My dress is light-blue. My stylist did a fantastic job coming up with my look for the night, choosing a gown that hugs my body in all the right places, the sweetheart neckline adorned with precious stones.

And then I see him. In all his golden glory, smiling at the crowd.

He looks glorious in his suit, jacket open to show off his perfectly fitted shirt, hair tousled. He tucks his hands in his pockets, navigating every conversation with ease.

And then he sees me and breaks out into a grin, glowing brighter than the sun. I don't know how I ever thought this man hated me when he looks at me like this, like there's no one else in the world.

He reaches out a warm hand towards me, pulling me to him when I take it, and it feels like home. His hand moves to the small of my back. I don't ever want to let him go.

"You're beautiful," he tells me, tilting his head down. This is it. This is the launch.

"I think I love you," I blurt out.

I don't get to momentarily panic over how sudden this is, how he might not feel the same, because his lips are on mine and the crowds and the cameras go wild.

We're public. We're in love.

There's no greater reward than this.

"Esme, Matt," a reporter calls, followed by her camera crew. "Do you have time for some questions?"

I look up at Matt and get a forehead kiss in return. "Absolutely."

˗ˏˋ★‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

see, this used to be the final chapter. not anymore. read on