Chapter 18
Sunlight slices through the blinds, sharp and accusing, carving stripes across my tangled sheets.
I crack one eye open and instantly wish I hadn’t.
My mouth tastes like last night’s tequila and bad decisions.
My skull thrums with a sharp, relentless pulse, as if a wasp’s nest is buzzing behind my temples.
My body aches in places that shouldn’t ache from dancing alone, a reminder that loneliness can still find ways to bruise you.
I’m still in yesterday’s clothes. My baby tee clings to me, rumpled and stretched, skirt twisted halfway around my hips.
My Mary Janes lie discarded at the foot of the bed, silent witnesses to the chaos I carried home.
Mascara smudges curve like crescent moons beneath my eyes, telling stories of the night I can’t quite piece together.
My memory comes in quicksilver flashes—neon lights pulsing like heartbeats, the burn of tequila down my throat, Isabella’s frown creasing deeper the later it got. Jamie’s arm braced around me as we spilled out of the club, my laughter sharp and a little manic.
I catch sight of myself in the full-length mirror across the room, and the truth slams into me hard enough to steal my breath.
Panic takes root fast—too fast—wrapping around my limbs, sinking into my bones.
My reflection stares back, wide-eyed and hollow.
I look exactly how I feel—wrecked, but there’s no time for self-pity.
My head is pounding, regret cutting me raw from the inside out, but none of that matters.
I’ve never missed a stream. Not once. It’s a rule I keep folded into my bones, one that’s as essential as breathing.
In camming, there are only two things you get to sell: your image and your reputation.
Miss a stream, and you don’t just lose views, you fracture trust. And once that trust cracks, you become replaceable.
Just another girl with a pretty face they’ll forget the second someone new comes on screen.
I’ve fought tooth and nail for nearly four years to claw my way into the top five on Tempt. And I’m not about to let one irritatingly handsome, heartbreak-wrapped-in-a-suit cost me the only power I’ve ever claimed for myself.
Chin up, mask on. It’s showtime.
I swing my legs off the bed and force myself upright, every muscle screaming, every breath a reminder that I’m still fucking here.
Some days shine brighter than others, but each one is a silent fuck you to Jen and her sick, twisted games.
To Ciaran and his inability to listen to reason.
To Jonathan and his gentle but still cruel way of removing me from the Points.
And to Matt, for the soft lies he spun about a future he knew we’d never have, leaving me longing for someone who feels stitched into my skin, even as I keep trying to peel him off.
And the most pathetic part? Half the time, I don’t even want the wanting to stop. It’s like the pain is proof that what we had was real.
That’s why I hate mornings like this, one’s where my guard's down and all the things I try to suppress creep up on me like an unwelcome shadow.
The truth is, I haven’t found anything—not tequila, not cash, not my subscribers’ filthy demands—that fills the Matt-shaped crater in me.
But at the same time, I want him to suffer.
I want him to feel even a fraction of what I felt when he stood aside and let them cast me out of the only home I’ve ever known.
It’s a toxic mess of a situation and I’m so, so tired of pretending otherwise.
Because love like ours doesn’t get happy endings.
It gets ripped out at the root and buried beneath tradition and expectations and people like Gianna Salvatore, who fit into this world like they were born for it.
I wasn’t born for it, I was dragged into it by my mother and her scheming.
I was a mistake, a complication, a dirty secret dressed in a schoolgirl skirt and kissed behind locked doors.
Sometimes I imagine the life we could’ve had if we’d run away.
Somewhere we could be anonymous. A tiny flat with chipped tiles and a busted heater.
Late nights tangled up in cheap sheets, using our body heat to keep warm, and laughing over instant noodles.
It wouldn’t have been glamorous, but it would have been ours.
And maybe I’d still be a whole person instead of this paper-doll cutout everyone thinks they know.
Or maybe this was always where I was going to end up—alone.
Dragging myself to the mirror, I study the girl staring back.
I keep waiting for her to crack. For the glossy hair and the perfect skin and the come-hither stare to finally give way to what’s underneath—a girl who doesn’t know who she is when she’s not performing.
A girl who thought love could save her. A girl who’s terrified she’s unlovable.
Still, I know what’s expected. So I rinse off last night's makeup, apply some concealer and gloss before slipping my mask into place. I still look rough, but less hungover and more like I’ve been up to no good.
Rolling my shoulders back, I allow myself one shaky exhale before I paste on the smile they pay for and hit record.
“Morning, my loves,” I purr into the lens. “I’m so sorry I didn’t show last night. It was a rough night… but I’ll make it up to you. Let’s get ready for the day while I fill you in.”
I let the words fill the space where my real ones used to live. Because this? This I can control.
And that’s all I’ve got left, isn’t it? Control. When everything else feels ripped from my hands, at least I can choose how I’m seen, how I’m desired. I might be wrecked inside, but on camera, I’m untouchable. Unbreakable. And right now, that has to be enough.
By the time I’ve filmed, edited, and uploaded my latest video—complete with promises to stream for longer tonight—the crash hits me like a slap.
I’m honestly surprised I lasted this long without caffeine.
Even on a good day, my morning coffee comes second only to checking my phone.
Never mind when my head’s still pounding like it’s got its own pulse.
I shuffle into the kitchen, dragging my silk robe tighter around my waist. Some days, this flat feels enormous.
Like every wall is echoing secrets I’m trying too hard not to think about.
Other days, it’s a coffin. A cage where the only light comes from a ring lamp and a thousand strangers who swear they know me.
I’m not sure which one I prefer anymore.
“I swear, if you give me watery rubbish today, I will unplug you,” I mutter under my breath, eyeing the espresso machine like it’s betrayed me one too many times.
It’s an empty threat at best. The problem doesn't lie with the machine, but with me. No matter what I try, I can never quite nail the art of brewing coffee. A quiet sigh slips out before I can stop it. God, I wish my favourite café delivered. There’s just something about the coffee there, like their baristas know how to brew magic right into those cups that mere mortals like me can’t replicate.
While the machine sputters to life, I slide open the balcony doors and step outside.
Cool air rushes over my skin, cutting through the clammy heat lingering from my filming lights.
Below me, the city stirs in that slow, dreamy Sunday fashion—the delicate clink of cutlery at the boulangerie, a dog barking somewhere in the distance, the low murmur of lovers who walk too close, too slowly.
I try to remind myself I wanted this. Freedom, a new start, studying abroad. But sometimes, even the cobblestones and warm croissants feel like a lie.
Because the truth is, wanting to come here was always a kind of desperation.
As Gianna’s twentieth birthday crept closer, the thought of staying home—of standing there and watching it all unfold—made my chest ache so sharply I could barely breathe.
The idea of seeing him beside her, wearing that hollow, public smile, was enough to tear something raw and private inside me apart.
In the end, running felt easier than breaking in front of everyone.
And now that they’ve moved the wedding up by a year, I’m even more grateful I left when I did because if I’d had to stand there and watch Matt marry a barely legal nineteen-year-old, I think it would’ve destroyed me.
A sharp knock snaps me out of the thought, making me freeze halfway between my balcony and the espresso machine with a confused tilt of my head.
I’m not expecting anyone, hell, only two people even know where I live, and after last night, I’m sure Jamie and Isabella have their own hangovers to nurse.
I tighten the silk belt around my waist and move through the living room, my bare feet whispering over the floorboards. My heart thuds a notch faster as I peer through the peephole.
What the hell?
A man clad in the uniform of my favourite coffee shop stands on the other side of the door, a takeaway tray balanced in his hands, expression unreadable beneath his cap.
I blink. Once. Twice. My eyebrows practically vanishing into my hairline.
What the hell is going on?
Still frowning, I slip the chain and ease the door open just enough to peer around it.
“Bonjour?”
The barista lifts the tray slightly. “Order for Lily Davis?”
My lips part. I shake my head, slow and confused, my brain tripping over itself to keep up.
“I didn’t order anything. You don't do delivery, I’ve tried.”
“It’s been paid for. Enjoy.” He shrugs, pressing the tray into my hands and turning away, boots echoing against the stairwell walls. I stare after him, then down at the cup still steaming in its cardboard cradle, the café’s logo embossed on the side.
I stumble back a step and close the door, the lock clicking into place like the punctuation mark on a sentence I’m not ready to read.