Star-Crossed Letters (Falling for Famous #1)(54)

In my life, I’ve rarely felt helpless.

Sure, I’ve been in plenty of shitty situations, one after the other, since the moment my mom died to today. Through all of it, I always had an unshakable certainty in my ability to manage, perhaps due to being challenged daily from a young age and surviving.

But that’s only when I’ve had to worry about myself. Now, this isn’t just about me.

Fear grips me, imagining how Olivia must be feeling, having the attention of the world—the haters, the trolls, the paparazzi, the unstable fans—all directed at her. And me being so fucking far away, I can’t protect her. This is the beginning of all my worst-case scenarios.

I hold the phone so tight I think it might shatter.

“That’s—”

“You,” Cassidy supplies.

“And that’s—”

“Not me,” she says.

I scroll down the screen and read. “Chase James and Mystery Girl Replay Famous Kissing Scene in the Rain. Fuck.” I scroll down farther to the subheading. “The Hollywood Herald can exclusively report that Chase James’s mystery girl is Olivia Evans, who works at a small bookshop in Noe Valley.”

My hand shakes. They know who she is. That means the full fury of all my obsessed fans and every tabloid in the world is about to rain down on her.

“Fuck,” I repeat, weaker now. My insides feel hollow. “Olivia.”

“So, who is she?” Cassidy asks, her face tightening.

“She’s my best friend.”

“It looks like she’s more than that,” her words echo my thoughts.

Cassidy observes me. “So is she the one?”

“The one who…?” I ask. My brain is far away—in San Francisco with Olivia.

“The girl you were hung up on when we dated.”

“What are you talking about, Cassidy?”

“I always knew there was someone else. The way you were so preoccupied. The way you were always texting someone. I see how you’re looking at this girl in the photo. It’s obvious how you feel. Is it her?” She doesn’t look mad, just curious.

I can’t deal with this now.

“What are you talking about?” I say. “We broke up because you couldn’t handle the media and fan scrutiny and their obsession with our relationship. After the death threats, you said you wanted a low-key romance.”

She looks sad. “That was hard. But if you had really cared, it wouldn’t have mattered. It seemed easier to blame the media. I’m not saying you cheated. But your heart was always somewhere else. If you looked at me even once like you’re looking at this girl, all the crap and baggage would have been worth the trouble.” She gently takes back her phone from me.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, surprising me. The screen reads, “Daisy.” Shit.

I answer and don’t bother with niceties. “Daisy. I just saw the photo. Are you and Olivia okay?”

“Ch-Chase, we have to talk.” Her voice is trembling. My always-glib, always-unflappable sister sounds upset.

Whatever happened is bad. And I already know that it’s all my fault.





CHAPTER 22





Olivia



In young adult novels, when there’s a life-threatening crisis, one of two things always happens.

Either the hero comes crashing in and saves the day, or the heroine steps up, kicks ass, and saves herself, along with everyone else.

Yeah, that didn’t happen when I was caught in a fire.

Clearly, if I was in some Nancy Drew girl gang, I’d be the one kicked out for sheer incompetence. Or poor lung functioning.

I passed out for only a minute or two. When I regained consciousness, survival instinct kicked in. I began crawling toward the stairs, but I grew weaker with each slow struggle forward.

Thankfully, several firefighters, who were called by a neighbor, arrived and saved me.

And now here I am, outside my somewhat charred house, gritty with exhaustion and soot, being philosophical about my lack of heroine potential. Obviously, I’m on the verge of losing it.

It’s nearing five in the morning, and all I want is silence, a hot shower, and sleep. Maybe I should have let them take me in the ambulance.

I’d resisted because I can’t afford another trip to the ER this month. But even with nurses poking and prodding me, at least the hospital would have been a more peaceful scene than my house, which is filled with official-looking people in uniforms.

I close my eyes and try to be thankful. The firefighters risked their lives to put the fire out. So, I can’t complain or cry, even if the whiny, overtired child in my brain wants me to. I refuse to think about the damage to my home.

At least the damage isn’t nearly as bad as it could have been. Most of the destruction is confined to the upstairs bathroom and the hallway outside my bedroom.

“Ma’am? Have you seen this?” a police officer asks.

The officer holds up a paper in his gloved hand. It’s a handwritten note with an angry red scrawl.

Daisy, who’d shown up just after the firefighters arrived, peeks over my shoulder.

As I read the note, the hair on my arms stands up.

“Slut. You don’t deserve him. Stay away from Chase.” Is slashed on the page.