Breaking Stars (The Celebrity 2)

Paige

My insides felt like they were unraveling, every part of me untwisting and unfurling with abandon. Never in my life had I felt so out of control, so overwhelmed, so…angry.

I screamed into the emptiness of my car as tears of frustration spilled down my cheeks. Pressing the green Call button on my steering wheel, I directed my car to “Dial Quinn.”

The robotic voice announced she was calling Quinn’s mobile, and I fought the urge to pull the car over and head toward Quinn’s house. Shaking my head wildly, I dismissed that idea. This was something I needed to do on my own.

“Quinn.” I sniffed and wiped my face with the back of my hand.

“Paige? What’s wrong?” Her tone was cautious; she obviously immediately knew that I didn’t sound normal or okay.

“I just wanted you to know that I’m losing it,” I said, practically hiccupping as my words came out on a choke mixed with sobs.

“Losing it? Losing what? What’s going on?”

Another long sniff. “I got in a fight with Jayson and Corryn about my future.”

“That’s not surprising.” She breathed out, and my speakers crackled with her exhale.

“They’re trying to force me to do that stupid movie. I put my foot down, Quinn. I said no.”

She let out a whoop of approval. “You said no? That’s my girl!”

“I also flipped Jayson off on my way out the door,” I said, then hiccupped.

“You flipped someone off and I missed it? Damn it, Paige, you can’t do that sort of thing without me. If I didn’t see it, it didn’t happen.”

I managed a choked laugh as I turned onto my street. “I’m pulling into my place. I’ll call you back.”

“Hey!” she shouted. “I’m proud of you.”

I sniffed and sucked in a ragged breath before responding, “Thanks. I’ll talk to you in a bit.” Pressing the red button on my steering wheel to end the call, I pulled into the valet at my apartment.

Stepping into the lobby, I avoided eye contact with everyone I would normally talk to and headed straight toward the elevator doors. My thoughts raced, causing my head to feel like it was spinning off my shoulders. I should be able to decide whether or not I want to make a movie. It should be up to me what I want to do with my life. If I wanted to take a year off and visit the moon, I should be able to do just that. It was my prerogative.

But it’s not. I’m owned.

By my agent, my manager, and my publicist. Directors, producers, and screenwriters who depend on me. The public. And the damned press.

Pressing my back against the elevator wall, I sank to the floor and rested my head on my knees. Squeezing my eyes closed, I let out a few sobs as tears spilled down my legs. When the elevator dinged and came to a jerky stop, I pushed myself up and stumbled down the hallway to my door.

Once inside the confines of my own space, anger replaced all other emotions. I started pacing the hardwood floors, tugging at my hair in frustration. This was ridiculous. All of this was beyond flipping ridiculous.

No one owns me. I’m a person, a soul, a being. I can’t be enslaved to anyone else unless I allow it to happen. If everyone is the boss of me, it’s only because I let them.

That was when I felt it. Something inside me snapped, and if my essence had the ability to make audible sounds, I would have heard the crack. The realization hit me like a runaway train.

I didn’t have to be here.

I could leave.

Get the hell out of Dodge. And Los Angeles.

YES!

This was exactly what I needed!

A madness possessed me as I ran into my bedroom and searched for my oversized travel bag. I started stuffing clothes of all kinds inside it—pants, shorts, sundresses, T-shirts, dress tops—basically anything I could grab. I was laughing like a crazed lunatic as I found more things to toss inside—makeup, face wash, a fistful of bangles, necklaces, and earrings.