Page 3 of The Road Less Traveled By

“And you want me to do this because…?” I trail off, the lack of sleep not helping my brain process anything. God, I’m a fucking wreck lately, and there’s nothing I can do to help that.

“To get the press off your back about Ralph getting out.”

My shoulders tense when I hear his name. My lungs suddenly forget how to work, and I want to shrink into the chair I’m sitting on and disappear. I start to twist the bracelet that lives on my wrist to try andcalm down, but it doesn’t work. I want to make myself so small that nobody can touch me, so nothing can hurt me.

But I don't, because I have to be professional. I take a short breath before I speak again. “And Alexander agreed to this for what? There’s nothing he can possibly gain from dating someone a lot less popular than him.” I don't mean to take a jab at myself, but there’s a huge difference between being aliteralmovie star and an influencer with a large fanbase.

“My team has agreed that I need to…clean up my image. Plus, you have a different demographic than I do, which means more publicity for me in different areas.” He smiles, one of those fake movie star smiles that he has probably perfected from years of acting classes.

I dislike him already, but before I can speak, Connie does it for me. “Bree’s excited about the new reach and the media’s distraction from her current situation. She’ll do it.” She looks over at me and smiles, and I shoot her one back, not wanting to upset her.

“It will be a great opportunity for sure,” I grit through my teeth.

“Wonderful. I’ll send over the paperwork for you and your people to look over,” Grace says, scribbling something down on a notepad.

Alex is smirking like he has something up his sleeve, and I fake my best smile to pretend like I actually care.

I just want to be home. I want to curl up in my bed and hide away until something swallows me whole.

“I’ll see you soon, Bree. Get that video camera ready, or whatever you use to film those videos of yours.”

“I’ll charge it right up,” I say as Connie hangs up the call. “So, pawning me off on fake dates now, are we? This wasn't what I imagined when you said you had good news for me, Con.”

Connie, my manager, is one of the only people I trust in this world. She’s around thirty-five, with brown hair that’s currently styled in a bob, and is about a head shorter than me. She handles all the confusing partsof being in the public eye, and we have a love-hate relationship because of certain things—like whatever today has been.

“Bree, you know how it is. I’m trying to get the media attention off—”

If I hear his name one more time, I might collapse. “I know, but is fake dating a movie star the right move? You know I would’ve said no if I knew ahead of time.”

“That’s why I didn't tell you. Wouldn't you rather have the attention on the boy you're dating than the man you’ve tried to forget for four years?”

No.As of right now, I’d rather have no attention on me when I’m relapsing into who I was after I met him for the first time. After what he did to me. After what he took from me. “Yeah, but is fake dating the way to do that?”

“I know you don’t believe in love, Bree, but give him a chance. He might end up surprising you in the end.”

I roll my eyes. “I doubt it.”

I used to believe in love. I used to think that it could conquer everything—every bad day, every shitty feeling I had about myself,everything.Isn't that what every romance novel I read tells me? That, despite it all, despite being who I am and doing what I do, I can still find love?

But it doesn't work like that, and I would never drag someone into the life I have now, and I don't think anybody would willingly walk into it either.

Nobody wants a girlfriend with an active stalker, PTSD, anxiety, and a belief that love doesn't exist.Idon't even like who I am most days. Ever since I got the call about Ralph’s release a week ago, I’ve been ghosting through everything. I’m trying my fucking hardest to snap out of it, but I can’t.

Every time I try to tell myself that I’m going to be okay, I panic. Any small sound I hear, I jump. I can’t be alone in small spaces like elevators or my shower, not without feeling like the wallsare closing in on me. Nobody wants someone who worries about leaving the house, who worries about her future. All of my time is spent worrying about things that haven't happened yet. I’m constantly on edge, panicked and on the verge of crying because my brain won’t shut off.

Nobody would want that. Nobody would want me, so I guess fake dating is all I’ll get.

“How are you holding up? Have you been sleeping lately? You look tired, B.”

Tired is the understatement of the century. “I’m alright.”

“Have you talked to Dr. Anna lately?”

Dr. Anna—my therapist. “Every single day this week, and I have a call with her later too.”

She smiles at me. “Good. Make sure you start to get some sleep. You and Alex will have your first public outing in a few weeks. There’s going to be lots of press tipped off about it.”

Of course there is. “I’ll try.” It feels like all I’m doing lately is fucking trying, but nobody notices. Every fucking second of every fucking day, I’m trying not to break, not to look like I’m falling apart at the seams, but nobody notices. They only notice how seemingly put together I am for someone whose stalker was released from prison and is probably on their way back to finish what he started.

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