After the elevator doors slam in my face, I turn around to see a fucking cacophony of reporters. And in front of them all is Cynthia.

“Happy?” I say as I shoulder past her. I need to get the fuck out of here.

I push my way out of the hotel, but no one follows me. I’m not the fucking story. I’m nobody. I look behind me and watch as the revolving door I just came through spins and finally slows to a stop, and behind it, through the glass and the gilded gold, all of the beauty queens are giving statements to the press.

Beauty Queen Has Public Fucking Meltdown. That’s sure to be the headline tomorrow, along with the breaking news that our engagement was bullshit.

No one gives a shit about me anymore. I don’t think they ever did, which is fine with me. More than fine, because I never asked for this. I never asked to be thrust into the spotlight with Cass. She likes the spotlight. She wants all the attention on her. There’s a reason I chose a line of work that puts me behind the stage, off in the shadows and behind the curtain.

I don’t like the attention.

I did it for her.

And now it’s blown up in my fucking face.

And I fucked everything up for her, just by being here.

This was my fault. If I’d never come here, none of this shit would have happened.

Her reputation would still be intact. She’d be a shoo-in for the crown tomorrow. In twenty-four hours from now, she would be walking across that stage and smiling with the crown on her head, the flowers in her arms, and she’d be waving to all her adoring fans and I’d be watching her on the fucking TV, knowing that I could never have her.

She still doesn’t even know that she’s fucked, that Cynthia is going to blow up her chances and her reputation and everything Cass has worked for her whole damn life.

I pull out my phone and my pack of cigarettes, pinching one of the filters between my fingers. I light it with the lighter she bought for me years ago and start to text her.

Still really need to talk to you, I write. Cynthia knows about the contract. That’s what we were arguing about. I’m sorry. Please believe me.

I hit send and wait for her to respond, finding my way to the edge of the boardwalk as I suck the hot, calming nicotine from the end of the cigarette into my lungs. It doesn’t matter if she responds or not. She has to know what I learned, and she has to make a decision about how she wants to move forward.

My feet find the sand as I stagger across it in my suit, taking another drag of my cigarette.

I really fucked up.

I sit down on the sand, watching the ocean waves roll in and out. It should calm me. My pal Dylan has told me this is the place to be if you need to calm your damn soul.

But I keep watching the waves, and it isn’t calming me down. It’s making me sleepy, but it isn’t calming me down.

I lay down on my back and throw my phone onto the sand next to me.

I close my eyes, listening closely to the waves crashing against the sand.

And I listen for my phone to buzz, for her to call, text, anything to let me know what the hell is going on.