Chapter 23
Ali Kat
I sit at a table in my PR firm’s war room with six top-level professionals in impeccably tailored suits, each of them dedicated to ‘rehabilitating’ my image. Which, at this point, may no longer be possible, and it’s getting more and more likely that I’ll need a complete ‘transformation.’
Videos of me throwing a glass bottle at Rose Mitchel are being played on loop. They made it onto Chatter Entertainment’s website before the night was out, which is highly suspicious. They’re about five seconds long, and ironically, they’re shot from many angles by different people, but it’s all the same five seconds. No one has a clip of Eva pressing the wine cooler bottle into my hand.
Ted is grim-faced, his hands holding the documents in front of him so tightly, his knuckles are white. Of all the people in the room, aside from myself, he has the most to lose.
I feel terrible for the stress that I’ve caused him. He took a gamble on me, representing me at my agent’s request, despite not having the proper pedigree. I really do owe him so much.
Caleb dons a cocksure grin, not a care in the world. But why would he worry? It doesn’t really matter how this disaster turns out, he gets paid regardless. In fact, the messier it gets, the more he makes. Still, he’s been there for me when I’ve needed him over the years, and I know he’ll do right by me now.
He is not the enemy.
“Maybe it’s time to take out those ta-tas,” Alicia Gagne, a high-powered PR rep says. “We can kick up the heat, give her a sexy makeover, show the goods—get butts in the seats.”
“That is usually only done when an entertainer outgrows their audience, like Miley Cyrus. When you’re young, with young fans, one day, you wake up an adult, and you’re stuck in this weird limbo. What do you do? You evolve to appeal to a new fan base,” Michael Rothwell, another PR juggernaut says. “Problem is, Ali never outgrew anyone. She just turned them off by being a sloppy drunk, and now, a homewrecker.”
Ouch!
I can’t bring myself to care about any of this anymore. I don’t want to let anyone down, but maybe it would be better if they moved on and focused on the next up and comer.
Prim’s hurt eyes haunt me, reminding me of what I’ve lost: trust, family,him.
Ted passes around a sheet with a list of current headlines. “Trainwreck Tammy Sinks her Teeth Into Married High School Sweetheart. Ali Kat Carter Fights Over Used Car Salesman. Ali Kat Carter’s Corn Cob Heist,” Ted reads.
“So, I stole Brett’s ‘corn cob?’” I reply, barely able to suppress a chuckle despite the dire situation.
“This isn’t funny,” Ted says. “How did this all happen?”
I’ve decided not to tell them about Garrett as it would do little good. The last thing I want to do is make trouble for him or Irene. So I respond with silence.
“Eva won’t respond to our outreach, but word has it, she has interviews lined up,” Caleb says. “It’s becoming obvious that she planned this. Maybe after the Saint Cloud incident, she figured it was only a matter of time before Ali’s star dropped, and wanted to cut her losses.”
“Which rags?” Ted asks.
“Not sure. Chatter…Whispers…” Caleb replies, looking down at some paperwork. “Whispers has been threatened with lawsuits three times this year alone. I’ll make sure to get word out to them that even a whiff of slander is gonna force us into the courtroom.”
“The problem is, with Eva, everything’s infinitely harder. Even with a non-disclosure agreement, her parents make so much money, she just doesn’t give a fuck,” Ted says.
I know I should be sitting, listening attentively, focused on getting my life back on track, but the problem is, I just don’t care.
I no longer care about what people think of me because those people don’t matter. Sure, I’m thankful for my fans and associates. I wouldn’t have risen in popularity and fame if not for them, but at this point in my life, it’s not about pleasing everyone.
It’s aboutthem.
It’s abouthim.
The man I left behind, and the family that wrote me off. I still don’t understand how it all took such a nasty turn.
The door opens, and a young, dark-skinned woman enters the room. She’s wearing mustard-yellow capris and a white blouse, an outfit that works in both a professional and casual setting. Something about the way she carries herself, an energized gait that reeks of ambition, puts me off.
“Ah—Jenna Slocum!” Ted enthuses.
“Jenna, who?” I ask.
Jenna walks up to me and extends her hand to shake mine. “Jenna Slocum, not too long ago, I was working with Maxwell Stryder during his…debacle.”
