“Are you sure this isn’t too much?” I ask as I pull the dress down to my knee.

“No, babe. You look incredible, trust me.” Jordan offers me a smile and I give myself one more look in the mirror. Jordan had picked out my dress for the night and had it sent to my room. While it was an incredibly kind gesture, I was getting seriously annoyed with everyone wanting to dress me. Especially in these tight dresses that barely allowed for me to sit without having to contort my body into some yoga position.

Jordan’s pick, however, was much tamer than the dresses that Daphni had shoved me into. He had opted for a burgundy bodycon dress with black piping that conveniently highlighted the bust and the hips. It was pretty flattering, and thankfully had straps to help hold up the girls, who otherwise may have popped out to say hello. The dress was beautiful enough that I didn’t need to bother with any accessories, except for a garnet stone ring and simple black heels.

Jordan wraps his arms around my waist as he looks at my reflection in the mirror. Pressing a quick kiss to my cheek, he lets everyone know that it’s time to go and I grab my clutch for the night, tucking in my phone.

“So, remind me again what party this is?” I ask as we make our way downstairs and to the town car waiting to pick us up.

“We’re going to Dom Federico’s house in the Valley. He’s one of the producers of my album, so there will be a lot of people there to network with. If you’re lucky, you may even find a lawyer to talk to.”

I playfully swat him with my clutch. “I told you. I’m not interested in entertainment law, I want to be a prosecutor.”

“Ah, right, babe,” he replies dismissively as we file into the car. While I’ve been enjoying my time with Jordan, I can’t help but notice that there’s just…something missing. He always seems so distracted. I tell myself it’s because he’s so busy with his career, but it’s hard not to feel like I’m always competing for his attention with his entourage, his assistants, even his stupid cellphone.

A short drive later and we pull up to a large, Spanish-style villa on top of a large hill. Our driver brings us to the front door, where it’s clear the party is already in full swing. The minute Jordan walks in, all eyes seem to fall on him and he is whisked away and pulled into the crowd, shaking hands and smiling brightly.

Suddenly alone, I awkwardly make my own way into the party. I instantly realize that this is not an intimate industry party like Jordan had described. There are cameras everywhere, all with badges from different magazines and tabloids. It’s also painfully easy to spot the agents, PR reps, and managers among the dense crowd. They are always hovering a few short feet away, phones in hand as they strategically maneuver their respective puppets around the room, making sure a photographer is always close by to snap a picture. The whole affair makes me depressed and annoyed and painfully aware of how alone I am here.

I decide to do my own lap around the room and find a quiet place I can loiter while Jordan does his song and dance. I find my way outside, to a large tiled patio overlooking an Olympic-sized pool. Propping my elbows down on the bannister, I take in the view of the stars and drown out the sounds of the party inside.

“Beautiful,” I hear a voice comment appreciatively behind me.

I spin my head around and feel my jaw drop. A few feet away, dressed in fitted black dress pants and a simple white button-down is Mauricio fucking Fedaro. Not only is he the most gorgeous man to ever grace this earth, he is a three-time Oscar winner and has a pretty dirty reputation that has granted him the moniker, “The Italian Stallion.” Daphni and I would binge his movies and talk about how dreamy he was. Even my mother visibly drooled when she saw his movies.

“You’re Mauricio Fedaro,” I blurt out as my mouth gapes open.

He chuckles and takes a few steps toward me. He’s carrying two champagne flutes and when he reaches me, he hands one to me. Still in shock, I take the glass of champagne and force my inner fangirl to mellow the hell out.

He tilts his head up to the sky. “You were watching the stars tonight?”

I follow his gaze upward. “I couldn’t help myself. They’re just so beautiful.”

He nods appreciatively. “I know what you mean. I was in this room, full of singers and celebrities and photographers, and then I saw you. A diamond among stones and like you said, ‘I just couldn’t help myself.’ I had to come speak to you.”

I feel a blush rise up my cheeks and, unsure of what to say, I take a long sip from the champagne.

Mauricio inches closer. I catch his dark eyes roving up and down my body, his interest obvious. I grip my glass tighter as I feel a prickle of uneasiness suddenly wash over me.

“You came here with Jordan?” he asks, and I nod in return as I plot a polite way to disengage from the conversation and sneak back to the party indoors. Something about him makes me uneasy and I learned long ago not to ignore that feeling in my gut.

“Well, what do you say about leaving with me?” he asks, his question dripping with innuendo and obvious interest. But more than that, I can sense something darker, more sinister that sends the hairs on the back of my neck upright.

A tiny tremor runs up my body as I take a step back, out of his reach. “No thank you. I’m actually going to head back—”

Before I can turn away, his arms reach out, pulling me toward him. Pinning me against the bannister, he covers me with his body and grabs my breast in his hand as he leans down to kiss me. The strong smell of his cologne mixed with his bourbon breath nauseate me, and I wrench my face to the side as I squirm to get out of his reach. He gets annoyed and brings his right hand under my dress to try and pull at my panties. I feel every muscle in my body tense as my thoughts race. I need to get out of here. Now. Instinctively, I jut my knee up and hit him straight in his groin. He lets out a loud yelp and drops his hands as he falls forward. I take the opportunity to run, and I drop my glass, shattering it on the tiled floor before rushing back inside to the party.

I push through the sea of people, searching for Jordan. The minute I spot him, I grab him and pull him through the crowd. Spotting a bathroom door ajar, I pull him into the room before closing the door behind us. Finally alone and safe, I collapse against him.

He wraps his arms around me and after I feel my breath even, I pull out of his embrace to look at him.

“What’s wrong, babe?” he asks, looking down at me.

I feel a tear slither down my cheek and I force myself to take a deep breath. “Mauricio Fedaro just…just attacked me,” I answer shakily.

“Attacked you?”

“Yeah, he came up to me outside and started hitting on me. I felt uncomfortable, so I tried to leave, and then he just grabbed me and put his hand up my dress.”

“Babe, are you sure it was him?”

“Yes, I’m sure! I know who he is! Don’t you believe me?”

“Of course I do. But he’s a movie star, babe, and he’s probably just a little drunk. I mean, look at you. You’re gorgeous; he couldn’t help himself.”

“That’s not an excuse!”

“Babe, calm down. It’s okay. Anyway, I’m the one who should be upset. I’m your actual boyfriend and he got further with you in one night than I have in three weeks.”

“Are you serious right now?” I look into his eyes and feel my stomach sink with dread. Gone is the friendly, playful glint in his ocean-blue eyes. Instead they look hard, cold, and hungry as they stare down at me.

Suddenly I’m very aware of the smallness of this bathroom, and the fact that the only way out is currently being blocked by Jordan. In the fluorescent lighting, I catch the dilated pupils and his shaky hands. He sees my eyes dart toward the door and his mouth hardens, a dark shadow crossing over his face. He takes a menacing step toward me and I feel my mouth grow dry as the hairs on the back of neck stand on end.

“Why don’t we fix that now?”

“Fix what?” I ask, completely confused and growing more and more panicked.

“Fix the fact that you haven’t let me fuck you yet.”

I feel all the air leave the room and dread sink to the pit of my stomach. My body is still tense and recovering from being groped ten minutes ago, and now I realize with a sinking horror that I’m in an even more dire situation.

“Jordan, I’m not going to have my first time in a bathroom.”

“Your first time?”

I curse myself for letting the fact that I’m a virgin slip out of my mouth. Something had held me back from telling Jordan, and now I realize I had been right to do so. “I mean, our first time,” I quickly say.

He laughs caustically. “You’re a fucking virgin, aren’t you? That’s why you’ve been such a prude?”

I feel all the color leave my face and suddenly the fear I have radiating in my body turns to blind anger. Anger at over-entitled assholes like Mauricio and Jordan who think that because they have Ferraris and can’t control their dicks, they can have whatever women they want, regardless of her consent. Anger at myself for not trusting my gut and seeing Jordan for the asshole he clearly is. Anger at how I have lived twenty-two years in fear of men like this. Men who don’t understand that women are not playthings put on Earth for their goddamn amusement.

And when Jordan takes another step toward me, his intent clear in his eyes, I decide that I am done. Done pasting plastic smiles on my face, done holding back my feelings, and most definitely done with assholes like Jordan James. I reach behind me and grab a tall bottle of air freshener resting on top of the toilet tank.

“Jordan, the reason I didn’t sleep with you isn’t because I’m a virgin,” I say as I hold the canister in front of his face and spray the contents directly into his eyes. “It’s because you’re just an asshole."

Jordan shrieks as the spray hits his eyes and he falls forward, gripping me for support. I push him off me, but he manages to tear the strap off my dress as he teeters back, landing on the toilet seat, his face clutched in his hands.

The path to the door now free, I jump toward it and pull it open. As I step out, light blinds me and I realize there are at least three photographers standing outside. I grab the top of my dress, holding it up. I look behind me and when Jordan spots the cameras, he quickly jumps up from the toilet and wipes his eyes. He smiles at the photographers, who snap another series of photos. I freeze as I realize exactly what this looks like to the gaggle of paparazzi and amused onlookers.

And as I tear through the thick crowd, I realize with an overwhelming sadness that the story of tonight has already been written. Because no matter how much money my family may have at their disposable or how many times I could scream it to the world, at the end of the day, all the world will remember is me spilling out of a locked bathroom, my torn dress, my messy hair, and Jordan’s smiling face. They’ll say I wanted it, that I let myself get into that situation. That I deserved it.

As I run down the stairs out of the house, I want to scream. This is exactly why I had never wanted to be thrust back into this world. It was fake and harmful. It spits people like me out every day. I hate myself for believing that this time it could be different, that Jordan was different. So I keep running as fast as I can in these ridiculous shoes until I am finally back onto the street, a safe distance away from the party. And only when I’m there, in the safety of the dark street, do I finally allow myself to cry.