Page 96 of Falling for Grace

“Ladies and gentleman,” he announces, holding me firmly in place.

“Please, Brandon …”

“Meet Grace Bush, everyone. My childhood sweetheart, the love of my life. The mother of my child.”

A further gasp from the watching crowd.

“It’s her—she’s the one who was with him in England,” someone says.

“But I’m afraid it’s not a fairy tale ending, though, is it, Grace?”

I don’t bother trying to fight him. His eyes are cold. I’m in this horrible dream.

“You see, everyone, Grace gave birth to my child, and it was a little girl, who she named Maya.” He smiles down at me, but it’s cold and fake and seeing it sends a shiver through my body.

“Brandon, I think you need to let her go, mate.” The shorter paparazzi is approaching us. I’m visibly shaking. No one in the crowd can have not noticed that, but he’s the only one helping me.

My breaths start to come in gasps, but Brandon doesn’t notice.

“But you see, she didn’t tell me. She didn’t tell me she had the baby, she didn’t even tell me she was pregnant. She didn’t tell me that my brother knew, she didn’t tell me when my baby was born, she didn’t tell me Maya’s weight, or her eye colour, her name, and she didn’t tell me when she died. At five days old.”

My knees buckle and Brandon finally lets go of me, probably too drunk and weak himself to hold onto my dead weight. My knees hitting the concrete with force.

I hear the sharp intake of breath around me.

“Get up, Grace.” He looks down at me with a strange expression on his face. I grip my chest, and he steps closer.

“No, Brandon.” The dark-haired paparazzi has now joined in and grabs hold of him and pushes him to the side.

“I can’t…I can’t breathe,” I manage to pant out, and I try to crawl away.

“Grace, get up,” Brandon repeats, struggling against the paparazzi who’s holding him firmly against the brick wall. I see the taxi that dropped me off isn’t waiting for me anymore.

I can hear sirens. I can hear the security guard trying to disperse the crowd. But it’s like I’m a bystander, looking at my curled-up, wheezing body.

“Get the fuck off me!” Brandon shouts. “Grace, stand up. Why isn’t she standing up?” he asks someone. “Grace, can you hear me?”

Who is taking the pictures? If one paparazzi is holding Brandon and the other is helping me, who is documenting this to put on the news channels, the entertainment channels?

“You’re having a panic attack,” the shorter guy states calmly. “You need to calm your breathing.”

“Is she all right?” Brandon asks.

The paparazzi next to me glares at Brandon. “No, she’s not all right, you piece of shit.”

“Grace, get up,” he slurs, as he slumps to the ground himself.

“Don’t look at him, Grace, look at me. Ignore that piece of shit over there. Nothing is going to happen to you, you’re safe.”

Nothing is going to happen to me, because it’s too late. It has just happened.

I know he’s right. The dizziness and fear of fainting is all part of the process, a horrible part, but not once have I ever collapsed through having an attack.

I can hear Brandon’s voice, but I continue to look into the eyes of the paparazzi.

“Fill your belly up with air, okay? These small gasps are doing you no good.”

I start by breathing in through my nose.

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