First published in 2021 by Ink Road

  INK ROAD is an imprint and trademark of

  Black & White Publishing Ltd

  Nautical House, 104 Commercial Street

  Edinburgh, EH6 6NF

  www.blackandwhitepublishing.com

  This electronic edition published in 2021

  ISBN: 978 1 78530 363 0

  eISBN: 978 1 78530 375 3

  Copyright © Estelle Maskame 2021

  The right of Estelle Maskame to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Ebook compilation by Iolaire Typesetting, Newtonmore

  To all my readers who have followed my journey from the beginning and are still here now, thank you!

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Playlist

  Thank You

  1

  There isn’t enough adrenaline in this world to power my legs much farther. No amount of rage can fill my lungs with breath. No amount of pain can fuel my body to take another step.

  The concrete beneath my feet sprawls out before me, but the streets are a blur through my burning tears, the passing cars nothing more than smudges of color, and the lack of clear vision has my head throbbing as though a million and one needles are jabbing into my skull.

  Wheezing, I collapse against the nearest mailbox. My throat burns as I fight for air, but my chest heaves so violently it’s near impossible. Sweat pours down my face and neck, as the sun shines relentless above.

  I don’t know how far I’ve run. I don’t know if I’ve even gone in the right direction.

  My knees buckle and I sink to the scorching sidewalk. I don’t know where in Fairview I am, and I definitely don’t know how far the Harding Estate is from here. And even if I did, I have already exhausted my cardio capacity. My heartbeat must surely be at its absolute maximum right now – one beat faster and it may just explode.

  Sobbing, panting, I grab my phone from my pocket. A swarm of notifications fills my screen, but I swipe them away and navigate straight to my contacts, blinking fast and drawing my phone up close in an attempt to find Sheri’s name. I call the number, pressing the phone to my ear, my other hand clasped over my face in an effort to hide from the world. I can tell that I’m on a residential street, and I don’t imagine these folks are all that used to peering out their windows to find a sobbing teenager slumped against the post of a mailbox. I am too hurt right now to even begin to process any feeling of embarrassment.

  “Mila—” Sheri answers.

  “Do you know?” I splutter, gripping my phone harder. “Have you seen the headlines?”

  Sheri doesn’t respond. There’s a long pause, and if it weren’t for her shallow breaths, I’d think she’d hung up. Finally, in a low voice, she asks, “Where are you?”

  There’s no surprise or confusion. No What headlines?, so there’s my question answered: Sheri has seen the news.

  “I don’t – don’t know,” I sniff, surveying my surroundings once more in hope of some clarity, but my eyes sting too much to do anything more than flutter. “Can you come get me? Please?”

  “Of course, Mila. Send me a pin of your location. I’m grabbing the van keys right this second, okay, honey?” Sheri says. I hear the clang of keys and the sound of a door falling shut. “I’ll be right there. I’m coming.”

  I hastily end the call and ping Sheri my current location, praying that she drives fast. I don’t want to be alone right now, but I don’t want to be with anyone else other than family who understands the gravity of the situation. Mostly, I want my mom.

  Oh, Mom . . .

  I close my eyes and try to picture the scene back home in Thousand Oaks right now. Has Mom only found out the truth at the same time as the rest of the world? Is my parents’ marriage unraveling in our home right now while Ruben strings together an emergency contingency plan to twist this story into something less damning?

  Is this story even real ?

  I suck in a deep breath and think.

  The tabloids do nothing but turn innocent photos and videos into something they’re not. That’s where they get their views from, their revenue – from big, shocking stories that create waves of scandal and delighted outrage. That photograph . . . the one of Dad and Laurel Peyton locking lips in that restaurant . . . it can’t be real. It must be a mistake, a misunderstanding. Dad wouldn’t hurt Mom like this. He wouldn’t hurt me.

  But he hurt LeAnne Avery before, and as she said . . .

  Once a cheater, always a cheater.

  I’m going to throw up.

  This time, I really wish it was because of too much expensive champagne and not from the shattering of everything I knew about my father.

  “Are you alright, sweetheart?” a concerned voice calls from across the street.

  The distraction suppresses the bile rising in my throat and my watery gaze locates the sound: an elderly woman watching me from her lawn with her rosy cheeks pinched together with worry.

  “NO!” I yell back. “My dad is a liar! Everett Harding is a fraud!”

  I’m not thinking straight. I can’t think straight.

  And will my phone just stop vibrating for one damn second?

  “You’re Everett Harding’s daughter?” the woman asks, and despite the fuzziness in my head, I know that I shouldn’t have screamed out my emotions like that.

  “No,” I lie like a total lunatic, then scramble to my feet, wipe my tear-soaked cheeks, and trek a little down the street until I’m out of sight from her.

  Okay. Deep breaths. Calm down. Think clearly.

  In Hollywood, an affair between two A-listers is huge. I have seen it happen to others in the industry so many times before. It completely takes over the entertainment press. Dad’s and Laurel Peyton’s careers are going to be ruthlessly torn to shreds, and everyone around them is going to be dragged into the drama. That means Mom and me.

  I cannot, despite my fury and my heartache, make things worse.

  I can’t say anything. To anyone. I can’t discuss my feelings with anyone but family. And I certainly shouldn’t be yelling crap about Dad to strangers in his hometown.

  All I can do right now is get back to the ranch, pack my bags, and book the first flight back to LA. There is no time for goodbyes, not for Savannah and Tori, not for Blake. I need to go home, because this is one family secret I can’t be left out of.

  And when Sheri’s van skids to an erratic halt five minutes later, my chest heaves.

  “Oh, Mila . . .” Sheri whispers as I throw open the door and climb into the passenger seat.

  Sheri looks older somehow. There are lines of frustration etched around her eyes, a paleness to her skin, and disappointment in the heartbroken look she gives me. Still, she is a thousand times more composed than I am.

  “How could he do this?” I rasp, staring numbly ahead at the windshield. “Again.”

  “I don’t . . . I don’t understand him,” Sheri says with an intense exhale of air. “I’m so sorry, Mila. I don’t know what to say.”

  I don’t know what to say either.

  We head back to the ranch in silence. Even the radio is switched off, and the burning beam of sunlight hitting my face makes me . . . angry. My mind feels like storm clouds and rolling thunder.

  The Harding Estate’s luxurious security gate and stone walls loom like a fortress in the distance as we weave down the winding back road, and the closer we get, the deeper the splices of my heart cut.

  I hate this life.

  I hate Hollywood. I hate the media and the paparazzi. I hate the production companies, the fans, the security guards. I hate Dad’s management crew, I especially hate Ruben fucking Fisher, and I hate the thousands of mindless rules forced upon me. I hate the feeling of the world watching me.

  And I hate these stupid security gates and everything they represent.

  But mostly, right now . . . I hate Dad.

  I hate what he has done to our family.

  To me, to Mom, to Popeye, to Sheri.

  Before I realize what I’m doing, I’
ve slammed my fist straight into the dashboard of Sheri’s van. I scream. Really, really scream. My throat hurts, but still I scream so loud I’m sure I can be heard from miles away, and I pound my hands uncontrollably against the car in a fit of rage.

  “Mila!” Sheri yells, slamming the brakes. She grasps my wrists and fights against me to keep my balled-up fists steady, but I thrash against her until I finally admit defeat and burst into tears.

  “I HATE HIM!” I scream between sobs.

  “I know, I know,” Sheri says soothingly, pulling me in tight to her chest. She strokes my hair, her chin resting against the crown of my head, and she holds me for what feels like forever.

  It’s the sound of a phone ringing that breaks us apart.

  It’s not mine. I turned mine off already and have no plans to turn it back on anytime soon, but Sheri grabs hers from the center console and frowns at the screen.

  “It’s your mom,” she says.

  “My mom?” I snatch the phone from Sheri’s hand and accept the call, pressing it to my ear.

  For a fleeting second, Sheri almost tries to grab the device back, but then thinks better of fighting with me in my current irrational state.

  “Mom, it’s me. I’m coming home,” I burst out, my words rapid-fire.

  “Mila . . .” Mom breathes across the line. Her voice is cracked, dry, like she has shed a million more tears than I have. “You aren’t coming home.”

  “Yes! I am!”

  “No, you’re not,” she says firmly, then, with a sniff, she adds, “I’m coming to you.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll be with you tomorrow. I promise, Mila. Please, I need to speak with Sheri.”

  Mom is coming to Fairview? That makes sense, I guess. LA with Dad is probably the last place she wants to be right now. The farther away from the chaos we both are, the better.

  “Mom?” I whisper.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you okay?”

  She is silent for a while, then finally she replies, “Are you?”

  That answers my question.

  I bite down hard on my lip and wipe tears away from my damp face as I listen to her shallow breathing.

  “Stay at the ranch. Don’t leave, don’t talk to anyone, and please stay off the internet and avoid TV,” she orders. Then, her voice breaks as she says, “I’m so sorry, Mila. I love you. We both do.”

  I don’t know about that anymore.

  I hand the phone to Sheri and then get out of the van. The gate is just up ahead, and I drag my feet past the towering stone walls and let myself in via the electric remote I’ve learned to keep on me at all times. Tracking my way up the dirt road, I spot Popeye stomping around with an ax slung over his shoulder.

  My grandfather may be aging, and he may be sick, but that doesn’t stop him from finding a release for his anger. I watch as he manages, albeit a little awkwardly, to toss split logs into a growing pile of wood. Furiously, he slams that ax through the logs over and over, and then he staggers out from beneath the tree into the blistering sun, sinks down onto the grass, and buries his head in his hands.

  Popeye wasn’t a huge fan of Dad’s life choices even before this.

  The sight of him breaks my heart all over again, but I have to turn my back on him and slip unseen into the house. I have my own rage to deal with, and if I don’t retreat to my room for some privacy, I’m worried I’ll not only do my best to smash up Sheri’s van, but that I’ll start destroying the house too.

  In the safety of my bedroom, I slam the door and throw my phone across the floor. I don’t bother to check if I’ve smashed the screen; instead, I draw my blinds, crawl fully clothed into my bed, and bury myself under my comforter.

  2

  At first, when I peel open my eyes the next morning, I’m convinced it was only a nightmare. A really, really intense nightmare that I seem to remember every detail of. And why do my eyes and throat feel so dry and painful?

  Rolling over, I spot my phone on the floor all the way across the room. Huh. I always leave my phone charging on the bedside table overnight . . . I stretch out my legs – why do my shins throb? – and get out of bed to retrieve my phone. When I turn it over in my hand, I see the smashed screen. The thick cracks, the missing pieces of glass.

  I shiver as my body goes cold.

  I really did throw my phone last night.

  It wasn’t a bad dream – all of it really happened. The headline . . . Running from Blake’s house . . . Crying on the streets of Fairview . . . Yelling at old ladies . . .

  The affair.

  Just as my head fills with the horror of it all, there’s a soft knock on my door. “Mila?”

  “Come in,” I mumble, staring blankly at my damaged phone. I have to remind myself to keep breathing.

  Aunt Sheri warily pushes open my bedroom door, like she’s afraid of what she’ll find on the other side. An emotional wreck of a teenager, that’s what. “I think you’ll need some caffeine today,” she says, presenting me with a steaming mug of fresh coffee.

  “I don’t like hot coffee. Only iced. You know that.”

  “Mila, I think you’ll really need this today,” she repeats with a slight twitch of a sad smile, forcing the mug into my hand. “Oh. Your phone. When did you do that?”

  “Yesterday.” My tone is devoid of any emotion. I can’t meet her gaze, but I don’t think she’s trying to look me in the eyes either. “What time is it?”

  My phone has been turned off since yesterday, so I can’t tell if it’s entirely broken or if it’s only the screen that’s damaged, but I’m not ready yet to switch it back on to check. Ruben, Dad’s manager, is still controlling my social media accounts, so I don’t have access to them even if I wanted to. Right now, that’s probably for the best. That fuzzy image of Dad and his co-star, Laurel Peyton, will be circulating all over Instagram. Their names will be trending on Twitter. Their fan pages on Facebook will be chaotic.

  “Just after nine. You’ve been out cold since yesterday afternoon,” Sheri says. She sits down on the edge of my bed and awkwardly straightens out my comforter. “And I suppose that broken phone of yours explains why a very persistent boy has been blowing up the landline for the past hour.”

  I perk up in surprise, giving her all my attention. “Blake?”

  “Yes. Blake,” she says, and I only now notice how tired she looks. Unlike me, I don’t think Sheri has had much sleep at all. “He’s worried about you. He thinks you’re leaving town.”

  “Did you tell him I’m not?”

  “I didn’t tell him anything, other than that if you want to talk, you’ll call him back.”

  I exhale a sigh of relief. “Thanks. I don’t know if I’m ready to talk about things yet.”

  “That’s probably a good idea right now,” Sheri agrees, and I think she, too, knows to keep her mouth shut over the next few days. We Hardings really do need to maintain a low profile more than ever. “Your mom will be here soon. She’s on the first flight out, and your grandfather and I have agreed that it’s best if both of you stay here for a while.”

  “You don’t mind?” I ask, surprised. Mom has never visited without Dad before, and considering the relationship Sheri and Popeye have with Dad, I’m not sure what that means for Mom.

  “We’re not letting you stay in hotels. We have room enough here,” Sheri explains with a kind smile. “Besides, it’s not your mom I have issues with. It’s your asshole of a father—” Mortified, she quickly stops herself. “Sorry, Mila. I shouldn’t talk about him like that in front of you.”

  “But you’re right,” I say. “He is an asshole.”

  “Hmm.” Sheri rises from my bed and tucks a loose strand of curly hair behind her ear. “You must be hungry. Grab yourself some breakfast, and then how about we order takeout for lunch?”

  “That sounds nice.”

  There is a very big elephant in the room, one that we are tiptoeing around the edges of, but what can we possibly say? Until more details emerge of Dad’s alleged affair, there is no point discussing it. Right now, there are too many questions that need answers, and neither of us can provide them.

  Sheri gives me a brief hug. “We’re downstairs if you would like some company,” she says, then leaves me to be by myself again.