Page 112 of Collide
“Okay,” is all I can manage because my mind is spiraling.
“But if you take that approach and you break up”—Kylie doesn’t hesitate—“there will be fallout to manage.”
Silence.
I press my fingers to my temple. This is exactly what I didn’t want.
“Look,” Kylie adds, softening slightly. “I know you’re not used to this, but this is the reality of dating someone like Alexander. You and your budding career come first. I am here to protectyourimage. I couldn’t care less about him, but you need to decide what you’re comfortable with. Because the second you step onto a red carpet with him, it’s game over. The world will start seeing you as part of his story, whether you like it or not.”
The thought chills me.
I don’t want to be someone’s story. I want to be known for mine.
Riley, who’s been listening with wide eyes, finally speaks. “Damn,” she mutters. “It’s like you’re negotiating a peace treaty.”
I throw a glare in her direction.
“Got it, Kylie, thanks.”
Kylie exhales, relieved. “Good. Talk to Alexander and let me know what you decide. Now, go enjoy your last day in San Diego and please, for the love of all things holy, if you’re with him, stay inside.”
The call ends, leaving a heavy silence.
I stare at the phone, feeling like the ground has shifted under me.
Chapter 16
Complicated
The city bustles outside my window, the steady pulse of New York moving without me. I should be out there—working, networking, preparing for my album launch. Instead, I’ve spent the last few days laying low, dodging the media frenzy that followed Geek-Fest and the ridiculous speculation about Alex and me.
We agreed—no red carpet, no public confirmations, no feeding into the gossip. For now, at least.
Well…I agreed. Alex didn’t care either way. In the end, I think his PR team convinced him it was smarter to keep things quiet.
It was the smart decision. The right one.
But it hadn’t stopped the headlines. Or the photos. Me at the grocery store. Me on a walk. Me heading into the studio.
I felt like I was always being watched.
And it hadn’t stopped the unease curling in my stomach.
And now, my father wants to talk.
That alone is enough to spike my anxiety.
Montgomery family ‘talks’ are never casual.
The black town car he sent to collect me pulls through the gated driveway of my father’s private limestone townhouse, thekind of Upper East Side estate that screams old money and quiet power. The home is pristine—marble steps, a wrought-iron balcony, ivy creeping up the façade. I stayed here a few times when I visited, but it never felt like home to me.
Because it never was.
I step out, tugging my jacket tighter around me, already bracing for whatever this conversation is about. My father doesn’t summon me to chat. If he wants to see me, there’s a reason, and I have a feeling it’s not just about my album.
The butler lets me in without a word, leading me toward the grand sitting room, where I find my father exactly as expected—seated in his favorite leather armchair, a whiskey glass in one hand, skimming through the Financial Times like nothing in the world ever touches him.
And then I see her.
