It’s never her fault.
I wishI could say our fame derived from a pure act of love, of kindness, of rainbows or motherfucking magic—somethingother than what actually happened.
But it was a scandal. Years before I was born.
Someone leaked information when she was only twenty-years-old.
Lily Calloway, the heiress of Fizzle soda empire, is a confirmed sex addict.The headline about her addiction rocked the globe. A salacious, shocking headline—that’s all it took. The news caused every Calloway sister to go from rich obscurity to instant notoriety.
Our fame burns. And burns. None of us need to stoke the flames for it to stay lit.
And me—fame is my friend and foe. It’s a part of me. A tangible thing that lives inside of me. This is the only life I’ve ever lived.
It’s the only life I know.
These days,I currently reside with Jane in an old, historic Victorian townhouse that’s just shy of 900 square feet. All hardwood floors. Interior brick walls. And a kitchen so cramped that a third person has to play Indiana Jones and scale the counters to fit.
I’d live a more minimalistic lifestyle if I could. I don’t need much.
And I’d say the three-bedroom, one-bath is extremely modest for someone with my bank account, but I’m well aware that living in Philadelphia’s Rittenhouse-Fitler Historic District isn’t cheapfor most people.
I may be obnoxiously wealthy, but I try my best to understand what I have, what I can give, and what others need.
I drive into a three-car garage, which is a real luxury in this Philly area, and I park next to Jane’s baby blue Volkswagen Beetle.
My car clock blinks 8:12 a.m. before I shut off the ignition. Farrow already unclips his seatbelt and tucks the folded papers into his back pocket. He acts like he’s just visiting, but my bodyguard ismoving in.
That’s right.
This isn’t awelcome to my lifesitcom. This is ayou’ve joined my lifedrama or possibly, a horror story.
It’s too soon to tell which.
At least we’re not about to be roommates. Above this garage aretwoidentical townhouses that sit side-by-side and share an adjoining door on the first floor. All for easy access.
Security stays in the right townhouse.
Jane and I stay in the left one.
Farrow barely even takes a second to digest his surroundings. I know thatheknows he’s moving in—there are two suitcases and a black duffel in my trunk to prove it.
I unbuckle. “Do you need anything else? I can pick up something for you at the store.” I almost groan at myself. Why the hell am I asking Farrow this? I’m on automatic and someone needs to switch me to manual, quick.
He pauses, his hand on the door handle. As he glances at me, his lips rise. “That’s cute that you’repretending you can go to the store without me.”
“I wasn’t pretending.” I pocket my keys and push open my door. “I just omitted the fact.” For my own sanity. I’m highly aware that Farrow is now obligated to follow me everywhere.Highly aware.I can’t exactly pretend that this twenty-seven-year-old tattooed guy is some random barnacle that attached itself to my ship.
He’s my fucking co-captain right now.
And I’m not thrilled.
In case I didn’t make that vitally clear.
We climb out of the Audi and shut our doors in unison. I pop the trunk, and while I grab his largest suitcase, I tell him, “I retract my offer.”
“That’s too bad,” Farrow says in a serious tone, slinging his duffel on his shoulder, “I forgot shampoo and conditioner.”
“You can borrow mine—Jesus fucking Christ,” I growl at myself, wanting to be an asshat to him for at least two seconds.
