As predicted, people have been watching—over the last 72-hours, the video of me blasting Allister and Paige at the altar has officially gone viral. There are thousands of reposts and reaction videos, all over social media. The story was picked up by TMZ and Hollywood Insider. Page Six of theNew York Postsomehow managed to find out whereDean and I are staying. Every time I check my Instagram account, it’s grown.Nearly fifteen million followers since Sunday afternoon.CosmoandMarie Clairewant interviews.Vogueis offering the cover.ForbesandFortunewant to do features on me—Melisandre Blackwell: The Future of Blackwell Investments.Offers for brand deals and endorsements are rolling in and Stacey, the family publicist, has died and gone to heaven.
Daily posts from now on, Millie, at the very least. People want to hear from you. You’re a role model. An entire generation of women is looking to you for inspiration. We can’t let this momentum go to waste.
So, in other words—no pressure.
My now daily posts are still boring. A picture of my morning cheese and fruit plate. The sunset if I can catch it. The hibiscus bush outside the bungalow. Yesterday, I took a picture of Dean, sitting out by the pool, watching the sunrise—bare chested, dark hair tousled from sleep and looking absolutely gorgeous—but I didn’t have the guts to post it.
I know she’s ready to strangle me. If not for Dean, I think she would have chartered a plane and actually shown up to do it by now because without him, this whole charade would have been up before it even started.
He’s been amazing.
Attentive and affectionate. Supportive and indulgent. A hand pressed against the small of my back when he pulls my chair away from the table in front of a busy restaurant. A kiss brushed against the slope of my shoulder while he’s putting sunscreen on my back at the crowded hotel pool. Hot, toe-curling looks from across the room. He’s been wearing the Rolex I gave him and he bought me a present in return—a silver anklet with the letter M and a teardrop shaped, emerald-colored crystal—at one of the hotel shops. He made a show out of kneeling down in front of me to put it on in the lobby after Iopened it. There was speculation on Instagram that he was proposing.
And that’s the frustrating part because the second we’re alone, it all stops. The touching. The kissing. The lingering looks. It’s like the second we step back into the bungalow, and it’s just the two of us, he puts me in a bubble. Like what happened between usdidn’thappen.
Like maybe he wishes it didn’t.
We leave the bungalow, directly after breakfast, and we don’t stumble back in, exhausted from a full day of activity, until nearly midnight. He lets me shower first, making sure I have a clean T-shirt to wear to bed (because I still haven’t made time to buy a proper nightgown) after I get out. When I’m finished, he showers and dresses quickly before climbing into bed beside me. All I get is a mumblednight, Millsbefore he rolls over to turn off his bedside lamp and goes to sleep.
In other words Dean Mercer is a rotten liar because he’s told me, more than once, that he had no idea what being a gentleman entails and now here he is, giving me the textbook definition.
What are you so upset about? Is it the fact that Mateo walked in and interrupted what was promising to be the most explosive orgasm you’ve ever had in your sad, boring, mediocre sex-filled life, or is it that Dean ispretending to fuckin public but when you’re alone, he acts like you have the plague because you were stupid enough to admit just how sad and pathetic you really are and now he feels sorry for, and is probably a little creeped out by you. Because really—who wants to get involved with stick-in-the-mud Millie? He’s probably been counting his lucky stars that he dodged the bullet that was your virginity, that night in the Hamptons.
These are the thoughts that chase themselves around my head at night while I lay here in bed and listen to Dean showerlike the sad little creeper than I am. I can’t even doom scroll on my phone to distract myself because every other post on any given social media platform is about us. Even though I know it won’t work, I’m desperate enough to pick up my phone and nearly faint with relief when I see a text from Gwen. We’ve been texting daily—something that has never happened before. At least I can say that this whole mess has brought us closer together.
Gwen: What’s going on between you and Dean? Like for real.
I told Gwen the truth—that Dean and I agreed that it would be mutually beneficial to pretend to be involved for the duration of the trip. What I didn’t tell her is that almost immediately after we agreed, he pulled me into his lap and called me hisgood girlwhile I very nearly came in his hand.
Me: Nothing. I already told you. We’re just pretending.
A few seconds later a video link pops up in our text thread. The caption reads?—
May this kind of love hit me like a bus because the way he looks at her… *Swoon*
It’s a compilation edit of Dean and I over the last few days. Still and short video clips of us together. Cuddled up in our private cabana by the pool. Him leaning down from his horse after our ride on the beach to kiss my forehead. Dean grinning like a loon while he watches me parasail. Another of him kneeling in front of me in the hotel lobby, my bare foot balanced on his knee while he fastens the anklet he bought me around my ankle. The last shot is a screen grab from the hotel’s website—a photo of the anklet in question. It’s not sterling silver, it’s platinum and theemerald-colored stone isn’t a crystal, it’s an actual emerald. Next to thebuy nowlink is a price tag that nearly makes me gag.
In the bathroom, I hear the shower shut off.
Hurrying now, I shoot back a quick text to Gwen.
Me: What can I say? He deserves an Oscar.
Not willing to let it go, Gwen persists.
Gwen: Well, I hope you’re lying. I hope the two of you are fucking like rabbits.
I wish.
Me: Sorry to disappoint.
Gwen: Sigh. You’re still my hero.
For some stupid reason, reading that tightens the back of my throat. Before I can start to blubber like an idiot, Gwen sends a follow up text.
Gwen: Paige is spiraling! She lost her shit in the comments on some random Threads post about you guys and Stacey made her deactivate all her socials. She called me yesterday. I let it go to VM.
I feel my gut clench. Gwen and Paige are closer in age. My little sister has always looked up to her. Emulated her, and like me, has always been easily manipulated by her.
