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My forehead sticks to the table as I roll my head to face her. “What erratic behavior? You could hardly call defending myself against misogynistic assholes erratic behavior, if that’s what you’re referring to,” I add, my head still glued to the table from my sweat mixing with the furniture polish.

“Do you really expect me to just smile and nod while I’m being asked what my body count is on live television?”

I wish I could say that example was a one-time thing, but shit like that has happened too many times to count over the past decade.

Tabitha’s eyes narrow in warning. “It’s one thing to lose your temper, but when you put lives at risk, this goes from PR nightmare to real-life consequences.”

“What do you mean?”

“It means you’re at risk of losing your contract, and if this goes to court, you’re looking at a very real chance of serving jail time…”

Her words are a wrecking ball, knocking the air from my lungs.

The room goes deafeningly silent apart from the razor-sharp gasp my mother lets out beside me.

“You can’t be serious!” I sit up in a rush, ripping my forehead from the table. “They were harassing me and blocked me in. I was trapped and just trying to get them to move.”

She levels me with an unamused look. “I’ve been up all night making phone calls, and I’m stuffed into body-shaping pantyhose that are a size too small and four-inch heels that are squeezing my bunions…I assure you, I am serious.”

“I barely bumped them. It was a minor fender bender at mo⁠—”

“Well, you’ve got some shit luck, because the airbags deployed.” She cuts me off, scribbling something on her notepad. “And on top of your hit-and-run charges, they’re suing you for personal damages and injury.”

I stare at the paperwork, my heart sinking to my ass. It’s not very often I’m rendered speechless, but I’m at a total loss for words.

“So…what do we do?” my mother finally asks, a note of panic in her voice.

Tabitha leans back in her chair and steeples her hands. “My professional advice is…you take a plea deal. Admit to the charges and take it on the chin.” She tosses another file on top of the pile. “After going back and forth, we’ve come to a fair agreement…”

I lift the paper, scanning the bulleted list as she speaks.

I was expecting a stern talking-to, maybe a few extra appearances with Augustus to appease the fans. But this is so much worse.

I could go to prison…for up to five years, according to this document. I’d miss out on my hottest years. By the time I got out, I’d be thirty.

Thirty.

That’s ancient by Hollywood’s standards.

There’d be no coming back from that. It’s not like I have any other skills or talents to fall back on.

“You’ll complete a full twelve-week anger management program with one hundred hours of community service…”

“One hundred hours?” I nearly choke on the outrageous number as I stare back at her. “How the fuck is that even possible? I have press tours and promos to do⁠—”

“Actually,” Claire interrupts. “That’s the other thing I wanted to talk to you about…”

My head jerks so fast to look at her, I nearly give myself whiplash.

“The studio has asked you to lie low for a while. They’re afraid of any more negative attention.” She bites her lip. “They’ve asked that you take the summer to let this blow over, while we work on things behind the scenes. Once you complete your anger management program, everyone will feel more comfortable having you on set…”

“I…I’m not a danger to anyone…”

Tabitha tilts her head. “I’d say the four people you rammed with your car may feel differently.”

“Oh my God, they were provoking me! Surely that’s got to cancel some of this out.”

I’d hardly consider what I did ramming. If anything, I sternly nudged them out of the way. It was practically polite, considering the things they were saying to get a reaction. They should be thanking me for giving them such great content.