Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 133034 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 665(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133034 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 665(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
The London Times has released behind the scenes footage, and a writeup of the drink, drugs and ‘attacks on hookers’ lifestyle Connor’s been caught up in. My fingers are quaking as I try to take in the words.
Connor has been paying hookers and degrading them in front of his entire backstage team. He’s been making women snort cocaine off his dick and spitting in their faces, offering them $1000 a go and then giving them the middle finger when they ask for the cash at the end of it.
He says they are lucky, apparently. That hookers are worth fuck all, and he’s worth millions. He’s a god in the making, don’t they know?
Absolute fucking wanker.
I can’t help it. Even through the shock, I have a very distinct feeling User 762 has had something to do with this. It’s come from a journalist working for The London Times news corporation, one of the major outlets in the country… they must have been on the case for weeks now. Weeks if not months.
Surely not. Surely User 762 can’t be a part of this.
I call up the details of the LT News Corporation team, the people involved in the breaking story. I dig around until I find the profiles of the people in charge. The people at the very top of the food chain.
And there he is, my daddy. My heart nearly leaps out of my chest when I see his professional photo on LinkedIn.
Fucking hell. No way.
Daddy is Editor in Chief for The London Times. Otherwise known as Charles Henderson.
I grin up at the roof of the cab, because what the fuck? What the holy fucking fuck?
The article is no holds barred, and the public outrage is already kicking off at the rockstar who shot to the stars. Josh was right. Connor is royally fucking screwed after this shit. And he deserves it. Scanning the details of the story, the asshole really fucking deserves it.
Oh my God. Thank you, Daddy.
Or more specifically, thank you, Charles.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Two weeks feel like yet another lifetime in limbo, but this time it’s a good limbo to be in. Nervous excitement is far better than wallowing on a sofa, afraid of the world.
I give my all to my clients, but outside of my proposals my mind is spiralling with the what ifs. There’s a tension there along with the relief. A rumbling fear that has taken root now that the De Chante has worn off.
I think it’s called reality.
Reality can be a tough one to take. A nasty intruder in fantasy land.
What if Heath is so freaked out, that this proposal is his time to say goodbye?
What if we get swallowed up in a gutting reality that we’ve forever lost the joy we found in Cannes?
What if Heath’s walls are up? Guarded? What if he’s nothing like the man we came to adore?
Or what if it’s the opposite? An explosion of emotions that can never be contained. What the hell do we do about it then?
I get horrible lurches in my stomach. Weird, sickly butterflies at the thought of setting eyes on my gorgeous idol after all these months apart.
I know Josh is battling with the what ifs as much as I am. I see him staring blankly as he stirs coffee on autopilot, or scrolling through his phone feed without even looking at it. Spaced out while his mind is spinning.
It’s him who is key in this. The heaviness is far more on his shoulders than mine.
His relationship with Heath is the foundation at the heart of this situation. It’s him who is going to be the driving force in how things play out from our side.
No doubt about it, this one proposal will change everything. It will set the ground for the future, whatever that might be.
For good, or for bad, it will change our lives.
The one bad that is changing my life for the good is the mess Connor is making of his. Daddy sure did an excellent job on that front, and the hole my prick of an ex is digging just keeps getting deeper. The mouthy motherfucker doesn’t help himself, bitching back at fans, trolls and reporters and making an enemy of the whole goddamn world. I catch snippets of him on social media, and it’s clear from his dilated pupils that he’s off his tits, all too happy to dish out the middle fingers and the fuck yous.
I’m old news now. Ella Edwards is a name rarely mentioned. The ex who allegedly broke his heart is just a flash in the pan of a shit storm. It was one hell of a rough storm to bear, but it’s moved on now. I’m like Dorothy in the world of Oz, dropped back on the ground after the tornado.
With two days left to go before our proposal with Heath, the jitters in both me and Josh are clear to see. We’ve even been avoiding Tiff so she doesn’t catch wind of it. Josh moves like he’s buzzing with electric, hardly able to stay still. He’s twitchy on the sofa, and twitchy in bed, the both of us a pair of fidgets as the hours close in, one by one.