Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81401 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81401 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Our divorce is moving along swimmingly or as smoothly as humanly possible. Asher, my agent, kept good on his promise to send the best divorce lawyer he knew. To say that Alana Guinn is a shark would be an understatement. I swear she eats men for breakfast. After our initial meeting, she had papers drawn up and served to Van the next day. He called, and I ignored him. There wasn’t anything that he could say that would change my mind.
The only problem that remained was the band. After a long conversation with Darian, Hayden, and Freddie, we decided that Van would stay in the band to finish out the album. I’d play nice as long as Van kept his space. We’d finish out the tour, complete our obligatory commitments, and go from there. The guys weren’t exactly thrilled with the idea of replacing Van, and honestly, neither am I. I don’t know if I can work with him.
Which leads me to where I am now, behind the wheel of my car and backing out of my driveway, not paying attention to who is in my way. I figure if I hit them, they deserve it for not moving out of the way.
Today, we’re filming the music video for our recent release. I’m not over the moon excited about having to spend the day with Van, but the guys have promised they’ll run interference. Of course, I have a tremendous amount of anxiety right now, and driving is probably the last thing I should be doing. The idea of seeing Van. . . it does things to me. While my heart aches from missing him and breaks from the damage he’s done, my brain is telling me that he’s a piece of shit and that I need to kick him hard where his family jewels are. That’s what I should’ve done when I caught him in the act instead of standing there and watching. It took forever for me to process what I was seeing and by the time I did he was scowling at me.
The thought of seeing him today has me torn. I can’t shut the love I feel for him off like a light switch even though that is what he’s done. I mean, you don’t cheat on the ones you love so clearly he’s no longer in love with me, but failed to give me the memo, despite what his numerous voicemails say.
I’m followed steadily by the paparazzi who were able to hop in their cars and not lose me in traffic. Fortunately for me, they can’t see through my tinted windows. Unfortunately, though, a few have decided to get in front of me so they can get a picture of me driving. You know, because that will sell so well. I don’t even want to know what sort of bogus headline they’ll come up with to try and sell copies. For the most part, each time Van and I have been in the media it’s been for what I’d consider fun stuff. Pictures of us shopping, looking at puppies, or on vacation would appear, but never anything that led to a controversy. Now we’re front and center, and our lives are being played out in the media like a real-life soap opera.
With my current dilemma, the only saving grace is that our video shoot is being done in a production lot, which means security. I sigh heavily as I signal to turn in knowing full well the cars in front and behind me can’t follow me in.
“Good morning,” the security guard says.
“Hi. I’m Zara Phillips,” I tell him, handing him my driver's license. “We’re shooting on stage twelve today.”
He does his due diligence and checks his clipboard, using my ID as a ruler as he goes down the list of names that are allowed through the gates without proper identification.
“Thank you, Ms. Philips,” he says with a smile as he hands my license back to me. I open my mouth to correct him, but the words fail on the tip of my tongue. My eyes begin to water behind my dark glasses as I offer him a strained smile.
Once the crossbar is lifted, I pull through and follow the directions I was given to the sound stage. I’ve opted to leave my window down for a little bit of fresh air knowing full well that no one on this production lot gives a rat’s ass about me and what I’m going through.
As soon as I put my car in park, Darian is at the driver’s side door and opening it. “You’re late,” he says. “Caleb didn’t think you were going to show.”
“I’m here, and maybe if the label had sent a car, I wouldn’t have had to drive and be mindful of the paparazzi that have been camping outside my house for a month.” My tone is snippy and not meant to piss Darian off, but I can see that I have. “Look, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to snap at you. I’m just angry at this whole situation.”