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FORTY

Selene

This is the third dress I’ve tried on, and I’m becoming more and more convinced I should’ve just had one custom-made.

The fashion house I usually order from has my measurements and—even though I’ve lost a noticeable amount of weight lately—I could’ve simply stopped by, given them my new sizes, and walked away knowing I’d received something I actually liked.

Instead, I’ve gone through nearly every store in this mall.

Nothing looks right.

Nothing fits right.

Is something happening to fashion that I missed?

With a frustrated sigh, I slide the dress back onto the rack, smoothing the fabric into place before turning away. My patience is gone, and so is any desire I had to keep searching. There’s no point when I already know I won’t find anything I like.

Since I came shopping alone, I decide to grab something quick to eat and then head home.

I still haven’t managed to detach myself enough to start going out with Sierra and Thalia again. Even though they constantly invite me to join them, I keep finding excuses to say no. And they are in London anyway.

Erik is away in Australia for work, my brother is on a business trip, and Mom and Dad are on vacation.

And ever since they left, they’ve been acting strangely. I barely get to talk to them on the phone before they rush off again. I have no idea what’s going on with them.

They called me last night—in a hurry, as usual—to tell me there’s an event tonight that I have to attend in their place.

I barely understood the details, and honestly, I wasn’t paying much attention anyway. But that’s the reason I wasted half my day trying to find a dress I don’t hate.

Just as I’m in front of the mall doors to head to the parking lot, I notice an unusual amount of commotion near where I parked.

The noise reaches me first—voices overlapping, camera shutters clicking, people calling out to one another. As I get closer to the glass doors, I realize there are reporters surrounding my car. Not just around it—there are cameras and people crowded several feet in every direction.

My steps slow.

Judging by the way they keep glancing toward the entrance and examining my car, they’re clearly waiting for me.

But why?

This has never happened before.

They’ve written article after article about Zayn for weeks. They follow him everywhere. They ask him about me constantly.

In the morning, they claim we’ve definitely broken up and that I was nothing more than a temporary fling he’s already replaced. By evening, they’re suddenly convinced we’re trying to keep our relationship private and that kiss Zayn gave me was his way of announcing to the entire world that I belong to him.

Or the complete opposite.

At this point, they contradict themselves so often it’s ridiculous.

And every article hurts more than it angers me.

Because I read them all.

I started the very first night after I came home, deciding it was better to know what to expect instead of pretending there wasn’t an entire circus forming around my life.

And once I started, I couldn’t stop.

I wish I still had the strength I’d had while I was in Romania—the ability to stay away from everything. But something changed after that conversation with Zayn.