One of them leans over my shoulder and tries to snap a selfie when I’m not ready for one, and I jump when she throws an arm over my shoulder. It’s more surprise than anything, but she doesn’t take it well. I hear a snide comment, but just barely since all the other chatter is still filling my ears and making my head ache unbearable.

“Guys! Guys! Give me a second, please. I’ll take pictures with all of you, just please, let me breathe.” I try to stay calm and as positive as possible as I stand up, but they crush in on me. There are dozens more now. Where did they come from?

They’re reaching for me, waving at me, trying to touch me. Screaming, crying, shouting, begging for me to get a picture with them. I can’t get through. I just want some air. I just want my space back. They start jostling me, begging for something, anything, asking personal questions, getting angry when I don’t answer right away but how can I answer when they won’t give me a chance to?

One of them grabs at my hat, and my head jerks to the side. She pulls the hat away and runs off, holding it over her head. I can’t go after her, especially since two girls are fighting for my scarf. Problem is, they’re pulling it in opposite directions and my neck is caught in the middle.

I can’t breathe. Literally this time.

I claw at the fabric and gasp, looking around desperately for somebody to help me. Anybody. This is out of control and I am way outnumbered. I’m going to pass out if they don’t stop strangling me.

My dress tears and tears spring to my eyes. One of them ripped my dress. I can’t make sense of any of it. They’re like a mob. Now I know why Nick always insists on security. I elbow bodies out my way, still choking, though I think one of the girls must have given up because the pressure has eased some. I can draw in a few raspy breaths.

I hear the pounding of footsteps over the screams of my “adoring” fans, and the sight of a half-dozen burly security guards has never been sweeter. Two of them grab me, one by each arm, and rush me off to a private room while the others hold the masses back. I’m so dazed, they almost have to carry me.

“Are you all right, Miss?” They sit me down on a sofa a lot more comfortable than the chairs at the gate. Not that I care anymore about how comfortable the chairs are. All that matters is it’s secluded. I unwind my scarf and take deep, shaky breaths while nodding that yes, I’m all right. As all right as I’m gonna be.

I look down at myself. My dress is ripped up the side, almost to the top of my hip. My hair is a straggly, tangled mess. I even lost the elastic holding my braid together. I comb my fingers through and try not to cry. This is what fame has earned me. I can’t go to the airport without getting mauled.

“You’re Taylor Rose, aren’t you?” someone says.

I nod and touch my hands to my throat, which feels raw. Great. I hope they didn’t damage my voice. Wouldn’t that be ironic? I start shaking.

“Do you want some water?” one of the men asks gently.

I wrap my arms around myself. I just want to go home. I need to be alone for a long time, where nobody can hurt me. I’ve been mobbed by fans before, but this is on a whole other level. Almost like they hated me. How can you claim to love somebody, then treat them like that?

I’m not human to them. That’s how. They look up to me, but I’m not a person. I’m not like them.

“I need to see her! Please!”

My head swivels around at the frantic male voice filtering through the closed door.

“Please, please. I saw what happened. I have to talk to her. Taylor!”

“You’re kidding,” I croak. I stand and go to the door, still shaky and sore, and press my ear to it.

“I’m a friend of Taylor,” Cole babbles. “Please, I know she’s in there, I saw you escort her inside after that mob scene. I was just running up. Please, let me see her. I’m worried about her.”

“Are you a relative?” a man’s voice barks.

“No, but she’s my girlfriend. I must see her.”

“Sorry, Sir, but that’s out of the question,” the security guard says.

“Taylor! Please! It’s Cole!” He really must be desperate if he’s screaming at a closed door.

“He can come in,” I call out as loud as I can, which isn’t very loud at the moment. Then I step back. For a second—the briefest, shortest second—I want to fall into his arms and cry my eyes out. I want him to hold me and protect me and tell me it’ll all be okay, that I’m safe. It was all a big mistake and nothing will hurt me so long as he’s there. I want all of that. I need it.

But no.

He doesn’t deserve to be my hero.

The door opens, and he almost falls into the room. The security guard shoots me a look, and I nod my head with a weak smile. He’s only trying to do his job. Cole’s eyes are like saucers as he takes in the full sight of me—torn dress, tangled hair, the welt around my throat, my teary eyes.

“Oh, God. Taylor.” He reaches for me, just like I knew he would.

I hold up my hands, palms out, and stop him.

His face falls.

“No way. You don’t get to touch me. You don’t get to do that ever again.”