Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
I set the box back in the passenger seat, start the engine, and throw the car in reverse. His bumper falls off when the vehicles are no longer pinned together, and I smirk, a tiny bit satisfied by the damage.
Piece of shit.
I don’t know what I plan to do with the statues now. I expected him to take them back because they’re his.
And he will take them back.
My mood hasn’t gotten any better since I smashed the asshole’s car. If anything, I want to return and throw gasoline on it. I’m surprised Braxton hasn’t yet filed the insurance claim, but I wonder if it’s a strategic move. Neither of us want my parents to know about me being anywhere near him or a police station, and had I been smarter, I wouldn’t have left behind evidence. But the damage is quite literally already done.
Part of me hopes the asshole keeps this to himself. I try my best to smile for the cameras at yet another event. Thankfully, I didn’t have to travel far for this one, and it’s more of a social event to raise money for a charity, which my mother has always been an advocate of. So doing things like this always makes me feel good about myself because it reminds me that although I’m not the same as my mother, I can follow her lead and try to do some good with my fortune.
I would have much preferred to stay home tonight. I’m in such a shitty mood already, and now I have to mingle with a fellow artist who is represented by the same agent I am. To say Kylie hates me is an understatement. Every time we’re in public together, she plasters on a fake smile and pretends to be my best friend, when in reality, she can’t stand to be near me.
She’s been rather boisterous about her displeasure with my level of success compared to hers, accusing me of favoritism or somehow buying my way up the ranks, and that’s even with her having no understanding of who my family is. It’s a pretentious concept among the inner circles, which is why I hate it here. Even if you have talent, everyone assumes someone paid someone to get where they’re at.
The success I gained, especially over the last four years, took her much longer to accomplish. She’s only become popular within the last year when she hit her stride in her thirties. Part of me doesn’t blame her because if I were working that hard for so many years without recognition, I’d probably be bitter as well. But to place the blame on me is a bit fucking stupid if you ask me. This industry has temporary seasons and favorites. Anyone can be spat out at any second.
I walk up to one of her pieces and admire the craftsmanship. She is definitely skilled.
See, I can fucking admit when something great is sitting in front of me, so why the fuck can’t a certain asshole appreciate my art?
Gah. I want to rip out my hair since my thoughts have, yet again, returned to him. I’m going so fucking crazy; I might actually kill someone tonight.
“I see you’ve sold out.” I turn to find Kylie standing next to me, her fake smile plastered to her lips.
Fuck me, her timing couldn’t be any worse. She’ll probably be next on my shit list, right behind a certain asshole who’s always on the top of it.
“And you?” I ask, trying to keep the same level of enthusiasm.
“Close.” She side-eyes me.
“Good,” I reply, not entirely sure what she wants from me. It’s never pleasant when we’re talking among ourselves, and I don’t have the patience for her tonight. I’m already fuming so much on the inside I’m not sure how collected I can remain. But I do what I was taught to do in these situations—I grin and bear it.
She’s wearing a black, fitted dress with black heels, and her dark hair is pulled back in a low ponytail that cascades down her back. She goes to say something else, but someone walks over and asks her a question. I couldn’t be more grateful for their interruption.
I glance once more at her piece before I circulate through the rest of the room. I’m always more interested to see the upcoming artists and their styles. I enjoy finding the small faults and revisiting my own years of polishing a talent that, to some degree, will never be perfect.
I spot a woman around my age with someone I assume is her mother, admiring one of my pieces. It’d be nice to have my mother here, but I learned a long time ago to keep my worlds separate. Whenever Lena Love walks into a room, people notice. And I don’t mind at all when my mother takes the spotlight. In fact, I prefer it. But I know it makes her uncomfortable when it happens at my events because she wants the light to be on me. People also create a narrative that I could’ve only come so far because of her influence so I realized it’s easier to draw a line between the two things I love most in this world.