Sebastian's house has a heavy, eerie feeling to it when no one is here.
Its vast walls and weaving hallways have to always be occupied. If not, it's like an abandoned castle from legend. I wonder how Sebastian managed to dwell here on his own when he wasn't hosting parties.
I sit outside most of the day on one of the chairs in the courtyard. With my laptop, I get back to work; it takes my mind off of last night. I want to feel somewhat normal again but in truth, I don't know if everything will ever be truly normal like it once was. I suppose this is the life I live now, and I have to learn how to adjust to it instead of running away from it.
Hours pass and so do countless emails. I've responded to every media outlet in my i
**JANUARYFor the last thirty days, I've been dealing with the most unbearable anxiety.Not because of everything that happened in December—I have been seeing a therapist for almost an entire month who has helped me tremendously with correctly channeling my feelings about everything that happened to me; Sebastian promised to talk to someone if I did, so we're both making weekly visits to shrinks.It isn't work, either. Work has been "relatively" normal ever since I returned to my apartment and eventually got back into my routine. The ideal reasons aren't the reasons at all. The real reason involves a man that I can't seem to get enough of—a man that seems to always spiral my life out of con
** I tap my fingers impatiently against the table top, watching restaurant goers enjoy their mimosas and laugh over their egg toasts. Brunch seemed like a reasonable time for Claire to meet me. Not for dinner or lunch or even breakfast, but brunch. That was the only time she'd agree to. She also set the place for our meeting—The Edenboroughin Beverly Hills. Very upscale eatery; money is dripping from every guest in the room. Claire, who had me make the reservation, texted me and told me she would be a little late the moment I walked into the restaurant. At that point, I knew she was messing with me. But I don't mind indulging in her childish antics. The fact that she agreed to meet with me is progress enough. "Can I get you started with something to drink, miss Ki
I should tell someone. I should do something. I should say something to someone I trust, but admittedly, I'm too scared. The journal, dark and tattered but still intact, rest on my lap as I sit in my car, too scared to put the keys into the ignition in fear of the car blowing up with me inside it. I've called Isaac and asked him to pick me up from the restaurant due to "car trouble;" I didn't mention the journal to him. He would only tell me that I should have listened to him about moving to Venetia. He would also tell me that this is certainly Garrett's doing—everything I already know being told to me over again. I don't open the journal again. I feel like I'm invading Sebastian's memories if I were to read it again; he's let go of the drama that's surrounded it. Now that it's back, all of its baggage comes with it. I should burn it. Bury it. Hide it somewhere. Part of me wants to
**I thought my victory over Claire Finch would last as long as the buzz around her scandal. Apparently, I was wrong.I'm unsure if it's because the heat has lasted longer in the press, at a constant peak, then expected—two weeks. It's all everyone is talking about. It's all everyonehasbeen talking about since Claire came out with the statement.In my office, I watch an interview that Claire did yesterday with Diane Sawyer about her infidelity scandal. I read the comments more than anything; they're less than sympathetic. I force myself to see the immense positivity in this, but with Sebastian not here to share this victory with me, it's almost useless in a selfish sense. A professional sense? It's an instant boost in my career. A publicist's ace in the
** **Now, where to start?Well, wine has been my only companion for the last three days. And Pedro, but unlike Pedro, wine doesn't judge me; my dog isn't used to seeing me barricade myself in my room deep in a depressive fog, so because of this, he has been judging me harder than he usually does.I'll be honest, I don't remember the last time I've showered. Wait—I do remember. The night Sebastian came over to my house and humiliated me against my sink. That's the last time I took a shower. Disgusting, I know. What's even more disgusting is that I'm not as ashamed as I should be.I'm a little drunk right now, which has been routine for me the last few days: cry, drink more wine, eat so I don't die, and drink again until I
*** SEBASTIAN In case you haven't noticed, my life is in fucking shambles. I've had bad days, bad weeks, and even bad months, but these past three days has been the hardest time I've been through in a while. Barricading myself in my house isn't exactly my initial response to my closet's skeletons being let loose to the world, but per Sarah's orders, I've been stuck indoors for three days. Three goddamn days. The week was going pretty well at first. I had dinner with Leslie on Monday night right before I fucked her brains out later that said evening, and from there I was actually starting to feel "whole" or something like that; as if a piece of me that I never knew was missing had fina
**"I am so pissed off at you, I can't even begin to explain!" Sarah's yelling at Sebastian in the office the producer provided to us. This was expected; we spent so much time going over the script and not only did Sebastian not follow it, but he deliberately went against everything we advised him to do. "Do you understand what you've done? Putting your father's name out there? Why would you do that?" It doesn't even seem like a necessary question to ask. We all know why Sebastian's doing this. But at the same time, part of his motive seems unknown to me. As expected, Sebastian doesn't answer. Sarah, angry and frustrated, stares at him for an elongated period as if he will start cooperating.
**SEBASTIAN I don't like him. Everything about this fucking guy—the way he talks, the way he walks, the way he looks at you when you speak. I don't like it. Alejandro Quintanilla. He's Salvador Quintanilla's nephew, so I'd be an idiot to try and fuck up this early in the game by giving him a rude welcome. "I just wanted to say congratulations on behalf of the Quintanilla family," Alejandro says to me. "We're looking forward to a prosperous future ahead for us and the Harrisons." Bullshit. His stare is full of malicious intent. His grip on my hand tightens, and I let go without giving him a sour look.