S E V E N T E E N

LOS ANGELES, CA

          "I hate your publicist," Michelle grunts, wiping some excess salt from the rim of her cup instead of drinking her margarita the proper way. As a fan of cocktails myself, I wrinkle my nose at this, wondering if this is an LA thing or if my sister just isn't as well versed in the universe of good drinks as I am.

          "She's an acquired taste," I retort, which isn't far from the truth. Considering I've spent an adequate portion of my life and our professional relationship doubting whether we're appropriately close to one another or not, I've had my fair share of moments where looking at her was the last thing I wanted to do. I like to think we're past that and are able to behave like mature women, people who don't just tolerate each other's presence based on a common goal—the success of my career and that of Harley Kane™—but I'm no stranger to people being ambivalent about her.

          See: Nick St. Martin. One would expect that the two people in my life who have my best interests at heart would be able to get along, but Sadie thinks he's washed out and peaked in his college years, while Nick thinks her approach is too cold and clinical, which is a nice way of saying he thinks she's a bitch.

          If I could pay men to never say the word bitch again, I would. Nick doesn't do it around me and I want to believe he's one of the decent ones, but I've been wrong about people—especially men—before and there are times when I fear ever giving people the benefit of the doubt. You can trust them with every ounce of strength and blind faith you have, but there's no way of being completely certain of who they are and how they act behind closed doors, when you're not around.

          I know people call me a bitch behind my back, sometimes even to my face. It never comes from people that matter to me so it generally doesn't bother me much, but there are times when every negative thing starts piling up all at once. Though I'm well aware I've built a career out of appearing to be unapproachable as per Sadie's advice and marketing strategy—it does work, for whatever reason—and there are times when I simply don't have the patience to be genuinely pleasant to be around, there's still a deep rooted desire in me to be liked by everyone at all times.

          Maybe people will stay then. Maybe people won't try to take advantage of me if I'm nicer.

          I don't think I'm too big of a people pleaser (that's Michelle, who thrives on being the golden girl), as people pleasers purposefully go out of their way to be likable, almost to an unbearable extent, but it's exhausting being seen and thought of as a bitch all the time. No one really likes a mean girl.

          "She's extremely protective of you," Michelle continues, helping herself to a generous serving of truffle fries. My stomach is still frail from the combination of carbs and alcohol from last night, so I've treated myself to a simple tomato and basil bruschetta option, which won't upset me nearly as much as what she's having. "I mean, good for you to have someone unconditionally on your side, but she takes it to a whole different level, like no one is even allowed to breathe around you."

          "Barely anyone in this city is allowed to breathe around me without sending me spiraling down a dark path," I remark. She avoids my eyes. "I think I've been having a constant panic attack ever since we landed in LAX and, even if she didn't know the full story, she'd still know something's up. Maintaining my public image is what keeps her employed, and we're both interested in keeping both of us employed. Keying Adam's car and publicly slapping could've ended badly, but it didn't stop me." It's my turn to not look her in the eye, glad there's food and mimosas I can use to distract myself and keep my hands busy with. "It was a mistake."

          "Was it? It didn't look like you regretted any of it."

          I lean back on my chair, enjoying the warm sun of May. It's not summer yet, but the temperatures are far more comfortable than I expected them to be, especially considering Los Angeles is a revolving door of trauma and I don't want heat-caused dehydration to be yet another thing on my plate. "It's complicated."

          "What isn't?"

          My ambivalence about being honest—fully honest—with Michelle hasn't dissipated since last night; if anything, it's risen in intensity following my conversation with Sadie from this morning about the NDA and all that. Though I know Sadie is doing her job and looking out for me, she doesn't know Michelle like I do, and the Michelle I know would never betray me like that. I want so desperately to be able to trust her and not come out of this trip stabbed in the back once again, but I know girls like me can't afford such luxuries. Girls like me don't get to blindly trust people anymore.

           I know Michelle is angry about the NDA, though she has yet to utter a word about it to me. I'd be too, if I had to hear someone I don't even know assume I'm about to run my mouth about deeply personal things regarding someone else's life, especially when that someone is my sister, but I get both sides.

          I understand being so deeply frustrated about not being believed, about screaming so hard my voice runs out and no one hears a thing, but I also understand being so terrified about those details running wild that you resort to desperate measures to keep them locked in.

          I know we don't trust each other that much.

          I can't completely trust her to keep things to herself, not when she has to keep our mother and Adam happy, and I'm aware she still resents me for all of this—for leaving unannounced, for leaving her alone, for ruining her perfect illusion of Adam's character, for unleashing Sadie's wrath on her—and she can get unpredictable when she's emotional, prone to blind fury. I can be impulsive as well (see: keying Adam's car), but I spend quite an embarrassingly long time mulling over every single decision I make and every possible consequence of said decision, whether it's been already made or not, in my head. I'm calculating. I'm manipulative. Michelle has never had a reason to be stopped in her tracks immediately before doing something, so she jumps headfirst.

          She doesn't trust me enough to be certain I'm not wrecking everything around myself when I inevitably leave Los Angeles for the second time in my life. She'll want me to come back, but I loathe the person I am when I'm back here, and I can't do that to myself. I can't betray myself like that.

          "It's just complicated," I echo. "Reputations follow you around, and you'll know just enough about the person I need to be in order to be marketable. All of this is very on brand for me."

          She scowls. "For you? Or for Harley Kane?"

          "I am Harley Kane. Rebecca is gone. Dead. Buried." I down my mimosa—a terrible decision, really. "I drowned that bitch years ago."

⊹˚. ♡

          Sadie refuses to let me out of her sight on the drive to my father's house.

          It's not far from the manor, which surprises me, as I assumed he'd find a place as far away from that woman as possible, but that's the difference between the two of us.

          Whereas I only allowed myself one moment of hesitation before turning my back on this city and the terrible things that happened to me, he keeps his wounds at arm's length where he can always find and poke them whenever it's necessary. Though we both run away from things instead of facing them head on, as Michelle ever so eloquently threw to my face yesterday, I deal with the consequences and take responsibility when it comes to it. I call out problematic behavior, including my own.

          Sadie joins me under the excuse of providing moral support. Even though I know part of it might be true, I suspect there's a hidden agenda buried underneath, and it's partially due to her professional responsibilities. She's also here to prevent and control potential scandals from breaking out and ruining both our lives, and it's understandable why she doesn't trust me to be out here on my own based on my track record. I doubt Adam will be nearby, as he's always been more my mother's lapdog, but we're not taking any chances.

          Sadie also keeps me company and I know we're both thinking the same thing: how cold and clinical it is to be kept waiting for my father to free his schedule just to accommodate me. We're greeted by an assistant, who asks us to wait in the living room of the blandest, grayest house in the neighborhood, and I'm paralyzed with fear over moving and ruining the architectural perfection of this place. It's nothing like him, or maybe it's nothing like the person I thought he was.

          It's depressingly funny, I think, how I've spent over half a decade of my life trying to attract the attention of and receive affection from older men while there was only one I've ever wanted to impress. I've attempted to make myself smaller, more palatable, more easily digestible by those men in hopes I'd ever be seen as an equal, but, in the process, I've steered so far from the little girl he raised and loved that I fear I won't ever be who he wants me to be.

          If he wants me to be Rebecca, I can't give him that. I can't keep shrinking myself and avoiding occupying too much space just because we can't coexist in our current states.

          When I first pressed charges against Adam, I sat in the dark by myself and wished my mother would see me for once in our lives. Now, following an entire week of reliving the worst chain of events of my life and being confronted with the wreckage I left in the wake of my departure, the sun is so bright it burns my eyes no matter where I look, and Sadie is sitting next to me, flipping through a gossip magazine she uses to point out everything she doesn't want me to be. Vapid, fake, a nervous wreck.

          The only accent wall in the living room is steel gray, the one thing that reminds me of home—New York, that is. I'm accustomed to the buildings and the perpetual fog, the busy skyline, and it's that single color that helps me find a footing and ground myself. It gives me an opportunity to brace myself for what I've somehow convinced myself I can potentially do, even if every single voice in my head wants me to believe otherwise. There are so many ways everything can go wrong and backfire, so many ways this can ruin my life and whatever is left of my strained relationship with him.

          Even Sadie has given up on trying to calm me down.

          The mimosas didn't help, and all the espressos I've been downing since brunch until now aren't doing much to cool my nerves. I'm as restless as a Pincher, my legs bouncing up and down and annoying the assistant to no end—she rolls her eyes whenever my sneakers squeak against the marble floor—and the buzzing in my ears grows louder and more violent by the second. As great as Sadie's work ethic is, having her point out every celebrity's rehab stunt thanks to a nervous meltdown right next to me is making me feel worse, like the worst thing I could do right now would be to throw up all over the expensive-looking tapestries.

         "Mr. Kane would like to see you now," the assistant finally declares, once it's obvious my body can't take the pressure of the walls closing in on me any longer. Sadie is the one to steady me when I stand up too fast and my vision blackens, my legs dangerously close to giving in to gravity. "His office is right down the hall. Should I . . . get you something to eat or drink? Something sugary?"

          "Yes," Sadie replies in my place. "We'll be on our way, but I'm certain Mr. Kane won't mind you interrupting our private conversation to ensure his daughter doesn't go into hypoglycemic shock right in front of him. Thank you, Sandy."

          The assistant scoffs. The plaque on her desk reads Samantha.

          My heart hurts. Realistically, I know it's a consequence of my nearly-permanent state of anxiety and this is its attempt at returning to a normal, healthy rate, but the beatings it's been taking lately are clear threats to its life. Even with Sadie's arm around me, I fear it won't ever be enough.

          Asking my father for help won't ever be enough. It's not enough to fix things or to repair my relationship with him, especially with my mind convincing me he'll think I'm just using him whenever it's convenient. And what for? For him to not even try to reach out a helping hand without me asking for it first? For him to continue breaking my heart, over and over again?

          As I sit next to him, the little courage I'd gathered vanishes. My throat dries up, and it's like Adam is standing right by us, menacingly, mockingly. His cologne is everywhere, his aftershave gets woven under my skin, and I want to fling myself into the sun, let it burn me alive. I am so haunted by this man it's pathetic, even after all these years, even after all the therapy.

          When does it stop? When do I stop seeing him everywhere? When do I stop feeling him everywhere?

          "Michelle said you wanted to talk," my father starts, accepting the plate of lemon and white chocolate cookies Samantha hands him before retreating into the living room. Sadie stands by the door like a guard dog, arms firmly crossed, and Samantha shudders under her glare—nothing new. "What's wrong? I thought you would've left by now."

          "There was a change of plans," Sadie chimes in. "Cookie, Harley."

          "Cookie," I mutter, bringing one to my lips and taking a tentative bite. They're so sweet they easily melt in my mouth. "Something came up."

          "Can I help?"

          I look at Sadie, silently begging her for help. She nods, chin raised, and I knew she wouldn't fail me, even if she doesn't agree. I need her to do this for me before I fully snap out of my hangover, adrenaline-induced haze.

          "As a matter of fact, you can. How good is your legal team and how willing are you to sign an NDA?"

⊹˚. ♡

there will be no further explanation. there will just be reputation. amen

i know this can simultaneously feel too sudden and too dragged on for too long, trust me. to think this book's events mostly take place in the span of one week is unbelievable to me, but i'm once again asking you guys to trust me on this one and, most importantly, trust the process. it's never an easy conversation to have with anyone, but harley was even less prepared to speak to michelle and only did it because she was under direct threat then. 

there was no NDA involved the first time she attempted to press charges against adam; there was just the threat of a counter suit and, unfortunately, babygirl was alone and terrified without anyone in her corner. whatever harley signed (the agreement mentioned in chapter nine, it was not an NDA and she can legally speak about it freely. she was simply coerced and intimidated into leaving and not saying a word mm'kay