But just when I felt I had it under control, a news story brought me back down. These algorithms were annoyingly good, keeping track on things they knew I was the most interested in, even though I didn’t want to be.
I fumbled in my bag and popped two pills into my mouth. One Xanax to help me relax and one Adderall for focus and energy, drowned with champagne to help me forget. I’d mastered my prescription cocktail years ago and knew what worked well together and what didn’t. For example, a beta-blocker like propranolol or sedative like Xanax worked great to calm my nerves, but would make me drowsy. When combined with an amphetamine like Adderall, however, the drowsiness was counteracted and I could sing and dance for hours on end. This was my usual cocktail for days like today, finding it worked much better than cocaine or ecstasy—which I saved only for parties or festivals I was attending for fun.
I wasn’t an addict, but I probably should have tried to rein it in. Now wasn’t the time, though.
“Ready?” the host asked, crossing one long leg over the other. She had short, curly, blonde hair and wore a bright-blue pantsuit that clashed against the green screen behind us.
I nodded, ready to get it over with, and held out my bag for Rebecca to take.
Once Rebecca was out of shot, the woman nodded at the cameraman, who counted down from three to one with his fingers.
*
After filming for the interview wrapped, I went straight back to my hotel, popped a few more pills, and slept for hours. It seemed the only time I could sleep was in the daytime; something about the nights unsettled me too much to switch off. My heart pounded as I woke from my nap, anxious that I fucked the interview up, worried Sam and Charlie would be able to tell I was on something. It didn’t help that everything I’d taken in the morning had worn off by now.
You have to get your shit together, I chided myself as I reached for more pills.You’re so close.
I walked out of my suite’s bedroom and opened the balcony doors, inhaling the Parisian air. It had a sweetness to it I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Bread? Flowers? Perfume? The scent mingled with the bitter stench of fuel being released into the air from the taxis and mopeds buzzing through the street below. From my balcony, I could see the twinkling lights of the Eiffel Tower in the distance, reminding me of the first time I’d seen them. With Colton. I was only twenty at the time; a naive child in the blissful newlywed phase of our tumultuous relationship. Completely oblivious to the darkness ahead of us.
A car horn blared, ruining the solace I’d been searching for. The high-pitched sound brought me back to the present, fixating my mind on the commotion of the city, amplifying everything from sirens wailing to engines revving to people shouting and laughing. I returned inside, instantly relaxing when I shut the doors and muffled the noise.
I’d just started drawing a bath in the elegant clawfoot tub when there was a knock at the door. I groaned, expecting it to be Rebecca with a soul-sucking request like filming an Instagram endorsement for some brand desperate to appeal to a younger audience. I tried to think of my excuses to get out of it, surprised when the knocking continued, louder and more urgent this time.
Boom. Boom. Boom. My heartbeat echoed the banging on the door as I apprehensively walked toward it.
Maybe it’s not Rebecca, I thought, disconcerted.Maybe it’s the police…
Fear flooded my body as I stared through the peephole and saw it wasn’t either of them.
It was worse.
Even through the thick wooden door, I could feel the magnetic pull between us, feel the hum of electricity in the air. That connection used to be filled with love and longing, but now it sparked with something rotten.
“Har, let me in,” Colton said. “We need to talk.”
Present Day
I’d been so close to getting away with it.So very close. But then he tried to ruin it all, tried to back me into a corner. And I couldn’t have that. He gave me no choice.
Thankfully, he mistook my cunning for compliance, not realizing I was sharpening my claws behind my back, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Chapter 28
Naomi wakes to the sound of a plate whirring against the countertop, followed by the shuffle of utensils. She bolts out of bed and throws on a robe, heart hammering as she stares at the chest of drawers barricading the door. Deciding to face her foe head on rather than stay put, she shifts the furniture as quietly as possible, giving herself just enough room to squeeze out the door. She hears the fridge open and close as she tiptoes down the hall, knife in hand.
She takes a step forward, holding the knife out, and turns the corner.
“Jesus Christ!” she yells when she sees him. “What the hell, Joel? I thought someone broke in.” She drops the knife onto the counter and wipes the sweat from her brow. “Was it you who left the door open last night?”
He stares from her to the knife and shakes his head. “Did I? Well, it is my place, remember. And seeing as you wouldn’t answer any of my phone calls…” His white teeth contrast with his tanned skin and pink polo shirt as he smiles sarcastically.
“I’m sorry—” she starts, but he doesn’t let her talk.
“So I thought I’d stop by, see how it’s going, see how you’re doing.” He gestures to the wall spanning from the living room to the kitchen and Naomi cringes. “And at least I’ve been able to confirm you’ve lost your fucking mind.”
Naomi doesn’t say anything. Her head is pounding and she needs lots of coffee and water for this.
He pinches his fingers together in front of his face. “I’m not going to lie. I was pissed when I first saw the article, knowing I’d have to spend hours I don’t have talkin’ to legal. Which I did, by the way, after a furious Sam-fucking-Brixton called me after you somehow managed to libel two of his most famous clients—one posthumously.” The color of his face grows closer to the bright shade of his shirt’s pinky-red as he presses on. “And then, to add to my embarrassment, I learn he personally kicked you out of Colton’s funeral—another thing you conveniently failed to mention to me. He said he was going to let that slide—he gets it, overambitious reporter doing her job, admires your initiative as much as he questions your ethics… But then you go rogue, publishing that brazen bullshit suggesting not only that Colton was blackmailing Harlow but that she’s potentially a fucking serial killer?”
