How could he say that to me? It felt like an invitation, like a promise.
And that very next night, less than twenty-four hours after tucking me into bed beside him, he was out with Serena fucking White.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel as a wave of pain and anger washes over me.
And the anger is good. It’s so much easier to live with than the sadness.
So I cling to it, feed it. I build it up until it roars loud enough to silence my sorrow.
The anger might be the only way I can get through this music video alive.
chapter 23
WHEN I PULL UP AT the address Ashton gave me, I have to double-check I’m in the right place. There’s a number on the gate out front, and past it is a long dirt driveway disappearing into a thicket of overgrown trees. I linger there for a moment, trying to decide if I should call her or just swallow my fear and see where the road leads. Holding that anger for Dex in my heart, I decide to throw caution to the wind—to be brave.
The dirt road is rutted, so I have to maneuver my Civic slowly. Branches and bushes reach out to trail their fingers over my windshield, and I’m just starting to think I may be driving into a real-life horror film when the road opens up to reveal an old manor surrounded by a bustling film crew. Ashton is standing in a patch of sunlight, talking to a few people I don’t recognize, and seeing her settles my nerves somewhat.
But then I spot a black Range Rover in the distance, and my stomach squeezes so hard it makes my sides ache.
At least I know I’m in the right place.
I park next to a few normal-looking cars, which I assume belong to the film crew, then step out into the sunlight.
It’s a perfect spring day, warm and sunny with a slight breeze that chases the bugs away. Now that I can see the manor more clearly, I realize it’s obviously dilapidated, with bricks crumbling from the exterior and vines snaking up the walls toward the roof. It’s the perfect place to film this video.
The song is called “Ghost,” after all.
“Are you Nora Miller?” a friendly voice asks, and I turn to find a round-faced woman wearing a headset and carrying a clipboard.
“Yeah.”
“Great. You can follow me to the trailer, and we’ll get started on hair and makeup.”
“Okay.” I pause to grab my violin out of the back seat, then trail after the woman, trying not to look around for Dex. I haven’t seen him—or any of the band members—yet, but I know he’s around here, and I certainly won’t be able to avoid him all day.
The woman leads me into a trailer with a paper sign on the door that reads Hair and Makeup. Despite it not being overly warm outside, the AC is running in the trailer, and I get goose bumps on my skin in the cold air.
“Nora!”
My gaze snaps up, and I find Sebastian sitting in one of the chairs, skin awash in light from the vanity mirror. Quickly, I search the rest of the trailer, suddenly terrified to be trapped in this tiny space with Dex, but he’s nowhere to be found. I sag, relieved.
“Hey.” I put my violin on a table in the corner before taking a seat in the chair next to Sebastian. He reaches over to wrap me in a warm hug, his big arms strong around me, and I hug him back.
“You okay?” he asks.
“What do you mean?” I’m distracted by the movement in the trailer. There are a couple makeup artists and hairdressers, and one of them is already approaching me with a hairbrush in hand. She reaches for the braid I have my hair in, and her touch is soft as she unwinds the strands and starts pulling the brush through my hair.
“I mean you and Dex.”
My stomach squeezes up. The hairdresser pauses momentarily, brush halting halfway down my head. Yeah, I’m sure even she has seen the hate I get online. The thought makes me clam up. Does everyone here know what’s happening? Have they all read the scathing comments and hurtful gossip articles? Do they pity me for not being as beautiful as Serena? For going toe to toe with her when everyone knew I could never win?
“I’m fine,” I say, flashing Sebastian what I hope is a convincing smile.
His brow furrows. I don’t think he’s buying it.
Thankfully, he drops the topic, and the hairdresser resumes the brushing.
Sebastian chats with me and flirts shamelessly with his makeup artist—who blushes bright red at his attention—and when he’s done in front of the mirror, he reaches over and squeezes my hand.
“See you out there,” he says.
Somehow, it feels like I’m preparing for battle, like Sebastian is wishing me well before I step into the arena.
I just nod, my throat tight, and then he leaves the trailer, a splash of golden light illuminating the doorway before he closes the door again.
With him gone, the space is quiet. My hairdresser doesn’t make small talk, which I appreciate, especially once the makeup artist swoops in. She rubs a sweet-smelling moisturizer into my skin, then begins dabbing foundation and concealer across my face, hiding my acne scars and the freckles sprinkled across my nose.
Working together, the two artists transform me into a version of myself I didn’t think existed. When they both step away from the chair so I can see into the mirror, my brown eyes go wide.
“Wow,” I whisper, blinking in surprise at the woman staring back at me.
My skin is dewy, glowing. It shines in the vanity lights, and the contour makes my cheekbones look sharp and pronounced. The makeup artist worked some kind of magic, and the green flecks in my eyes pop against the brown eyeshadow swept along my lids.
Soft curls drape across my shoulders, and the dull lifelessness my hair had when it was in the braid has been replaced with bounce and vibrance.
“You look gorgeous,” a familiar voice says, and I turn from the mirror to find Ashton standing near the trailer door. I’m not sure how she got in here without me realizing, but I smile gratefully. “Are we ready for wardrobe?”
The hair and makeup artists confirm they’re finished. Next thing I know, Ashton is whisking me out of the first trailer and into another one. This one is full of clothes on racks and in bags, and Michael is currently standing in front of a full-length mirror, adjusting the sleeves of his crisp navy suit. When he looks up and catches my eye in the mirror, a combination of looks crosses his face. Surprise, anger, pity. Or that’s what it looks like, at least.
