His Pretty Little Obsession

Aubrey

I barely stifle a yawn as the door to my car opens. Despite my utter exhaustion, I paste on the picture-perfect smile everyone expects. As soon as I stand, cameras are flashing in my face and the paparazzi are shouting questions.

“Is it true that you and Brent broke up?”

“Did he cheat on you?”

“Are you finally going to rehab?”

That last one has my smile faltering for a second but with all eyes on me I have to keep it together. All the questions about Brent don’t bother me. We weren’t dating. It was nothing but publicity. Something my manager and stepmother thought would be a great idea. 

I went along with it for a while, but Brent kept pressing for more. I would rather gouge my eyes out than actually be his girlfriend, let alone have sex with him. I haven’t saved myself for years just to lose my virginity to a jerk like him.

“Aubrey, have you heard from Steve Nelson since his release?”

My eyes grow wide and this time my smile does falter. 

Steve Nelson. 

Three years ago, he attacked me in my dressing room, and had it not been for Ted, the best hair and makeup person a girl could ask for, he would have raped me, and God only knows what else. 

He was arrested and found guilty of assault, attempted rape, and stalking. His apartment was full of evidence of his obsession with me. He confessed to being ‘in love’ with me and said that I was his and no one else could have me. It was an open and shut case; due to a prior offense, he got twenty years without parole.

I still have nightmares of his beady eyes and the overwhelming stench of body odor and cigarettes that practically choked my senses. The bruises on my skin have long since healed, but inside I’m still broken.

A firm hand lands on my back and I jump. The scent of pine and peppermint hits me a moment later followed by the gentle voice of my driver. “Let’s get you inside, Miss Campbell.”

Simon has been my driver for years; he’s practically family. The fact that he followed me instead of driving away tells me he thought there could be trouble. He gently guides me into the hotel and straight to the elevators, then to my room.

“Are you okay?” he asks, worry evident in his tone.

“I-Is it true?”

“Afraid so. Seems he got released on a technicality two weeks ago.”

My stomach drops. He’s been out of jail for two weeks and I’m just now hearing about it? “Why wasn’t I told?”

Simon winces, a look of shame coloring his already ruddy cheeks. “They didn’t want you to worry.”

I instantly know who ‘they’ are: my stepmother and agent. And I guarantee they didn’t keep this from me so I wouldn’t worry. They kept me in the dark so that I would stick with their rigorous schedule. I’ve had back-to-back photo shoots for various designers and magazines for months. 

Not to mention a couple of commercials, a talk show, and four runway shows. I’ve been in five countries in two months and even though I’m back in the States, I won’t be going home to Los Angeles anytime soon. I’m in New York for even more work, and it feels never-ending.

“Does Andrew know?” My brother is Special Forces. He’s often out of touch due to his various deployments. I’m not sure what exactly he does, but I know it’s dangerous.

Before Simon can answer, my phone rings. “What have I told you about smiling for the papers?” my stepmother’s nasally voice booms.

I ignore her disapproving words. “When were you going to tell me about Steve Nelson being out of prison?”

“Now, sweetheart,” her voice takes on a saccharine sweet tone, “we just didn’t want you to be concerned. He’s all the way in California and there was no reason to worry you. You know how pinched your face gets when you’re worried. We can’t have you getting frown lines.”

Of course, the concern is whether or not I’ll get wrinkles, and not that keeping me in the dark could be a risk to my safety. 

Heaven forbid anything happen to my pretty face. No, I’m not being conceited. I’m a world-famous supermodel and have been told how beautiful I am for as long as I can remember. 

Sometimes I wish I weren’t pretty. I wonder what life would be like if I were plain. Would people take me more seriously if they didn’t see me as just a pretty face?

My stepmother’s voice cuts through my distracted thoughts. “Don’t forget you’re fasting until after your shoot tomorrow. We can’t have you looking bloated!”

The hollow feeling in my stomach reminds me that I haven’t eaten anything since the plain salad I had for lunch. Sighing, I agree. She goes over my schedule for tomorrow and my mind drifts. 

After another reminder about fasting she ends the call. At some point during the conversation, Simon left. A glance at the clock shows it’s nearly midnight. I should shower but I’m just too dang tired. Instead, I curl up on the couch and fall into a deep sleep.

What feels like only minutes later my phone rings. I reach for it on the nightstand. 

Nightstand? 

My brain is filled with sleepy confusion when I realize I’m tucked into bed. I must’ve been more out of it than I thought last night because the last thing I remember is collapsing on the couch, fully dressed, and now I’m in bed in nothing but a shirt and panties. My phone rings again and I forget my potential delirium and/or newfound sleepwalking disorder.

“Hello" I murmur sleepily into the phone.

“The car will be there in fifteen minutes.” My stepmother’s scathing tone is the worst wake-up call ever.

“What time is it?” I ask, noticing the sun isn’t even up yet.

“After your little stunt last night, we decided it would be best for you to go on Live Daily and talk about the situation.”

I blink in confusion, trying to figure out what I did. “I… what stunt?”

My stepmother lets out a long-suffering sigh. “The pictures of your frowning face are everywhere. We need people to see you happy and smiling. You need to do damage control. They are going to talk about Steve and you’re going to tell them you’re not concerned, and then they are going to ask about Brent. You’ll tell them that you hope to one day reconcile when he’s done sowing his wild oats.”

I scoff at that. “Mom. I’m not going to lie. Brent would love nothing more than to have some sort of claim on me and I’m not doing it.”

“Why do you have to be so damn difficult?”

I flop back in bed. “I’m sorry, Mom. It’s just not a good idea to say anything that would lead him on.”

“Fine, then I want you to be tearful over his betrayal. No crying though, you’re ugly when you cry.”

I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve heard that. Showing emotion is only acceptable if it’s done prettily. Frowns are not acceptable. Tears are not acceptable. Anger is a big no-no. Perfect smiles and serene expressions, always.

“Yes, Bridgette.” I know it’s wrong, but I get a little joy in knowing how much she hates when I call her that. Before she pushed me into modeling, she insisted I call her by her first name; once the cameras were turned to us, she demanded I call her ‘Mom.’ Being the perfect picture of a doting mom is hard to do when you won’t let your kid call you anything but your first name.

“The car will be there in fifteen minutes. Don’t dawdle.” She hangs up before I can respond.

I check my phone for messages and see one from my brother. A genuine smile spreads across my lips for the first time in I don’t know how long…probably the last time he called.

•I saw that fucker got out. I'm sending Gage. I don’t trust those assholes to keep you safe.

Love ya, itty. Call if you need me.•

My stomach gives a small, unexpected flip and heat pricks at the back of my neck as my gaze lingers on the name.

Gage Buchanan. 

My brother’s best friend.