Page 14 of Famous for a Living

This place no longer fits such a description.

Bernie becomes engrossed in a particular smudge on his monitor as I pass.

“Snitch,” I murmur as I pass him and catch his eye with a scowl as the elevator doors shut.

Inside my penthouse I drop my wet umbrella on the floor. Water splatters onto the tile and I blink at it, then step over it as I make my way to the kitchen.

Home.

More like the cold and lifeless walls and windows I’ve had to keep shut from the more desperate and willing of the paparazzi. Helicopter rides come cheap. Telescope and long-shot cameras even cheaper. And the number of residents able and willing to loan out their living rooms across the street in exchange for the excitement of telling tales and, if they’re lucky, seeing their names in eight-point font in the papers . . . well. People were easy to buy. The bar was low.

I’m standing by the sink, halfway into last night’s takeout when Serena swings into the kitchen, snatching the cold box of lo mein from my hands and tossing it in the trash can. She sets a hot cup of coffee in one of my hands and a paper bag in the other.

I raise my brow at the bag. The word Buvette flows in black script across the bag. The French bakery carb-loathing Serena only buys from when she’s only exceptionally happy or exceptionally sad.

I’m about to be either thrilled or devastated by this news.

Scents of cinnamon and buttermilk and fresh bacon waft around me as she begins banging around the kitchen cabinets for silverware and plates.

“Murphy says he’ll take the case.”

No.

Serena pulls a plate from the cabinet and a spoon and knife from the drawer. “Now, he says since you signed every contract willingly it’ll be tough, but—”

“He’ll take it?” I say in a small voice.

Impossible.

After I’ve been turned down by every reputable law firm from Cortlandt Street to Tarrytown, Murphy & Brown will take the case. Her family’s lawyer. One of the best.

“He’s already reading through the emails between you and Bobby—”

But of course she somehow has my private email account information.

Sure she would.

“But before he really digs in,” she says, grabbing the bag from my hand and tipping it over until two boxes slide onto the counter, “he recommends you start making some lifestyle changes. As in, immediately.”

I let out a dry laugh, my eyes ticking over the mail table by the front door where PR packages and gilded invitations used to be brought in by the hour.

Today’s mail?

Pizza coupons.

“Serena. What could possibly be more different than my life now?”

“He wants you to cut back on expenses. He says”—she pauses, giving me the side eye as if gauging whether my mental health can take it—“there’s a real chance this could go sideways, and if you end up needing to pay out—well. He wants you to be prepared.”

I squeeze my eyes shut.

We’re talking about half of forty-six million dollars and my reputation and my livelihood. My job.

If I can’t be proven innocent and salvage my name, any future in content creating will vanish. Leaving me, a girl with no college degree, no high school diploma, and no other skill set aside from what I’ve been doing the past fifteen years, with nothing.

Nothing.

How can I possibly ever be prepared for that?