The Dirty Truth

“The lyrics are literally the instructions.”

I laugh, dipping down to kiss his smart mouth.

“Mom thinks you’re way better looking than Elijah,” I add. “So bonus points there, because I’m sure she’s dying to brag to all her friends at her book club about what a catch her last unmarried daughter is dating.”

“Good,” he says. “Because I really fucking hate that guy. Glad to know I’d beat him in a beauty pageant.”

“Let’s be real—you’d beat every man alive in a beauty pageant,” I say. “And a lot of women too. But don’t let that get to your head. We don’t need it exploding.”

“Are you saying I have a big head?” His hands encircle my waist.

“I’m saying you have a healthy amount of confidence and self-esteem.”

Before West has a chance to respond, two knocks at the door interrupt him.

“Did you order room service?” I ask. I don’t know who else it could be at 7:00 a.m. Certainly not Scarlett—she went home with my parents after my mother told her she could have my room.

“Did you see me order room service?” the smart-ass quips.

Hopping off the bed, I grab a hotel robe from the back of the bathroom door, slip it on, and head for the door. Only when I answer, no one’s there. It’s nothing but a Sunday paper and the July issue of Made Man, complete with a smirking Bradley Cooper on the cover.

“West? Did you . . .” I stop when I hear the spray of the shower coming from the en suite bath.

Plopping down on the bed, I flick through the glossy pages of his magazine, skipping to the section that once housed my column to see who’s writing for me now—or if he scrapped the feature entirely.

Only, to my surprise, The Dirty Truth isn’t scrapped at all.

Centered on the right-hand page, where my professional headshot once was, is a different image of . . . me. One that wasn’t taken in a well-lit studio by a professional photographer. One that hasn’t been retouched or filtered. One of me standing by the east window of his bedroom in nothing but one of his white T-shirts, my back toward him as I sip coffee and take in the sunrise.

And below it is a headline I never thought would see the light of day.

THE DIRTY TRUTH ABOUT WEST MAXWELL

by Elle Napier

What image comes to mind when you think of West Maxwell?

It’s okay if you need time. I’ll wait . . .

I know there are thousands of them in existence.

Maybe you thought of that Instagram picture from four years ago where he’s riding on the back of a camel, pyramids in the distance and an orangesicle sunset coloring the background? What about the one where he’s geared up and rappelling down some snowcapped mountain in Switzerland? Or better yet, maybe it’s the January 2019 cover of Made Man—the one in which West appeared shirtless, leaning against a gleaming Gotham-black McLaren Elva and looking like he’d just won the lottery, his dream woman, and a one-way ticket to paradise all at the same time, all while pushing his “Ultimate Guide to Your Best Year Ever.”

But who’s the man behind the filtered image? Who’s the man writing the inspirational captions that make you want to set your alarm for 4:30 a.m. so you’re not late for tomorrow’s grueling CrossFit session? Who’s the man that inspires both professional and interpersonal greatness with a single square-shaped, likable, shareable photo?

I bet you think you know who he is.

Or maybe you have a general idea.

Ambitious? Yes.

Attractive? Undeniably.

Intelligent? I’d say so.

Wealthy? Does Saturn have rings?

But what lies beyond that? What drives him? What keeps him going day after day? But more importantly, does it matter?

Spoiler alert—no. It does not matter.

I’m about to drop a dirty little truth bomb—you are not West Maxwell and you never will be.

The West Maxwell you see is a marketing machine’s carefully crafted version of the ideal man.

Let me drop another bomb on you while I’m at it: the average woman is not looking for her own personal Made Man. Not even close. She simply wants a partner who listens, who shares her interests, values, and life goals—and bonus points if they’re not a jerk and happen to be in close geographic proximity.

I’m oversimplifying, but you get the point.

You want the secret to having it all? You’re not going to find it in the pages of this magazine.

Save your money.

Save your time.

And simply be yourself.

There may be a million men trying to knock off West Maxwell, but there is only one you—and that, my friend, is what makes you a genuine catch.

Yours in truth—

Elle Napier

The shower water from the next room ceases, and I sit in stunned silence for an endless moment. A second later, West appears in the doorway, a white towel cinched low on his hips.