By the time we reach the front doors of Cara Sinclair’s mansion, the street is dead quiet. There are no fans, no press, no drunken stragglers—just the faint hum of streetlights and the ocean breeze rolling somewhere far behind the hills.Cara punches in the alarm code with a clumsy finger, swaying just slightly. She’s sobering up, and with sobriety comes silence, apparently.The door clicks open.“Come on,” she mutters, stepping inside.I follow her through a foyer made of white marble and money. The chandelier above us looks like shattered stars frozen mid-fall. Her heels dangle from her fingertips, and she drops them at the base of the stairs, as she’ll never need them again.“This is the kitchen,” she says, waving a hand as if the room bores her. And maybe it does. The fridge is full of sparkling water and takeout. “I don’t cook.”She says it flatly, and I realize this is the first honest version of her I’ve seen tonight. There's no glitter-stained spectacle, no wild backstage sedu
Last Updated : 2026-01-05 Read more