Page 101 of Passenger Princess

That’s…something. When I scroll, there are a few pictures of me, one at the crowning ceremony, my face covered in genuine shock, but for the first time when I look at it, I see Anne, the crushed look painted on her face, and the absolutehatredin her eyes. The rest of the accompanying photos are perfectly timed shots, me with an angry face as I argue with a reporter, a shot of what looks like Jaime assaulting me at the Girl Scout self-defense tutorial, me slapping the man who smacked my ass. A shot of Jaime and me dancing at the benefit, looking much cozier than we should. A photo of Jaime and me walking Peach in the park on our first date both makes ice form in my veins and makes me wonder if this creep would be willing to send me a copy because it’s the cutest picture ever.

And finally, there’s a snapshot of Jaime leading me out of Hank’s house last night, me looking over my shoulder and laughing, Jaime looking down at me with utter adoration in his eyes, his hand on my waist pulling me close.

Each photo is chosen precisely to tell a story, and as I read the article, I realize the story is more of the same.

There’s a range of accusations within it, from my not being qualified to be Miss Americana and how the industry needs to add more qualifiers to keep out the riffraff, to my not valuing my position, to my being a bad influence for the many watching young eyes.

It’s all bullshit, really, some shitty piece to drag me through the mud, except for one part.

One paragraph that takes the breath from my lungs.

“And it also seems Miss Boudreaux is breaking her contract in more ways than just not upholding the values and tradition of the organization. American Star can officially confirm that she’s dating her bodyguard, Jaime Wilde of Five Star Security, assigned by the organization to chaperone her. Because not only does she not uphold traditional values, but she’s so self-absorbed, she believes she’s indangervisiting with the people who voted for her to win her crown.”

I don’t even let my mind touch on the fact that this article makes it seem like hiring Jaime wasmy idea, like I’m some diva with a self-inflated ego thinking everyone and anyoneis out to get me. I don’t even care about the accusations that I’m not a good person or that I’m fake.

Whatever.

But I do care that they’ve dragged Jaime into this.

I feel sick to my stomach, and for a moment, I contemplate hiding in this bed all day.

“What’s wrong?” Jaime asks when he walks into the room we’re sharing with Peach’s food bowl.

I jump, not having heard him, lost in thought as I scroll and read the comments, ignoring all common sense that isscreamingat me not to. Some were great and supportive, but as you quickly learn when you have any sort of social presence, there are more than a healthy amount that are absolutely scathing.

“Have you seen this?” I ask, pushing my hair back over my shoulder and sitting up straight from where I’ve been hunched over my phone.

“The article?” I nod. “Yeah. A pile of shit.” He tugs his shirt over his head—it seems he not only came back but also showered while I was distracted. Fuck, how long was I lost in that rabbit hole?

“A pile of shit, but it’s goingviral. I have a dozen texts in my inbox right now, all asking me for details.”

“Yeah, and so is the video of us teaching the Girl Scouts.” My stomach drops to my feet, and suddenly I feel lightheaded. “And the one from teaching the women yesterday morning. Doesn't matter,” he says, rooting through a bag for socks before sitting on the side of the bed and pulling them on. Then he stops and looks at me. “You’re not letting this get to you, are you?”

My jaw goes tight, but that seems to be enough of an answer for Jaime.

“You’re letting it get to you. Why? Are you nervous about repercussions? How it’s going to impact you?” He moves closer to me, stopping what he’s doing and sitting on the edge of the bed, pushing my hair back with the back of his hand. “Ava, we aren’t doing anything wrong. That rule is outdated, and if they really try toenforce it, it would look horrible for them. A PR nightmare. And I have Miles looking into that asshole to find anything we can to discredit him.”

I shake my head because he’s not understanding.

“I don’t care about me. I got to see the country, I got my adventure, and my friends are doing amazing. So what? I lose the crown, and Anne gets it. Who cares? She’ll always know that she didn’t win, and that’s punishment enough.”

He looks at me, eyes assessing but not understanding what he’s seeing.

“Then what is it?” he asks, his voice soft and gentle.

“They dragged you into it,” I whisper, embarrassed that my shit is impacting him this way.

“Yeah, well.” That isn’t reassuring by any stretch of the imagination.

“Are you going to get in trouble?” I ask. He shrugs like he doesn’t even care. “Jaime, this is a big deal.”

“It’s not, Ava. It’s really not. In my world,youare a big deal. Everything else is background noise. I told you when we made this official between us that I don’t care anymore. I care about you being mine. We were keeping things quiet because I didn’t want to be taken off duty as your guard, but we’ve got just a few days left. I’m not too worried about it.”

“But…your job?”

“Not that important.”

“Jaime, are you insane? You’ve only got what, three years before?—”

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