Page 54 of Passenger Princess

And in that flash of time, I see it all. Regret and fear and anger in his eyes, and I know—Iknow—it's my fault for insisting he go with Anne just so I make less waves. None of this would have happened if I'd just listened to him and let him insist on not going with her.

Right on its heels, another thought knocks through me, reminding me it'snotmy fault. This wasn't supposed to happen. Itwouldn't have happened if this fuckwad knew boundaries.

It'sthisasshole's fault.

With that thought, my hand pulls back, and I slap the man across his face. Again.

"How do you like it, huh? A little love tap?" I ask, slapping him again as Jaime holds him back, adrenaline rushing through my veins as I do. "Not so fun, is it? A love tap,my ass!"

I don't let myself wonder what would have happened if Jaime wasn't here and didn't grab him when he did. Instead, I meet Jaime's eyes as he shifts the man out of my striking range, and somehow, I settle myself, coming back to reality.

"Ava! Ava!" reporters call, and my skin heats, the adrenaline coming down as I realize what just happened: I slapped a man, and every moment was caught on camera.

This is going to be everywhere in ten minutes, max.

"Ava! How does this reflect on the Miss Americana organization?" a reporter from the American Star I've seen a few times asks.

"What?" I ask, stilling. I look over my shoulder as Jaime hands over the douche who smacked my ass to the hotel's security.

"The Miss Americana pageant. How do you think this reflects on them, considering you're here on their behalf? You assaulted a man repeatedly." Preston Smith, I remember what the reporter's name is. He's fond of writing disapproving and speculative articles about me.

Lovely.

For a split second, panic fills me. Does this break my contract? I remember there being a line about being the spokesperson for the pageant and how my actions reflect upon them and being liable for damages if my actions reflect poorly on them.

And then I remember I don't fucking care.

If defending myself after someoneassaults mereflects poorlyon them in their eyes, they can fuck themselves.

That's one time I'd be willing to lose the crown to Anne for sticking up for myself.

So I straighten my shoulders and look at one of the cameras dead on.

"I slapped a man back after he, a complete stranger, slapped my ass without my permission." I smile sweetly at the reporter, putting my curated pageant girl in place, the real version that won me the social vote and, ultimately, the pageant. "Payback’s a bitch, you know?"

"I just mean, the ideal for the Miss Americana contestants are docile caretakers, not someone who seeks retribution and violence. As you know, young girls are watching your every move. You've become a role model."

My head moves back as if the reporter slappedme. In my peripheral vision, Jaime's head snaps up as well, not because he's shocked by the question like I am, but because he knows. We might not have been working together that long, but he already knows me well enough to know that question is going to piss me off.

"You're right. Girlsarewatching; they're watching women in the spotlight and using what they see to shape how they believe theydeserve to be treated and how they should act at any given moment. They're watching how we do or don't stand up for ourselves when assholes like that—" I jab my finger in the direction of where the man was. "Take advantage of us. And I hope they're taking notes on how they must stand up for themselves. When I was growing up, much of the media I saw told me to grin and bear it, to let it happen because, chances are, that woman did something to deserve it. She didn't dress right, or she said the wrong thing or encouraged some entitled man. But that's fucked. Why should I live my life any differently simply becausemen exist?" My chest is heaving now, and everyone around me is silent. "So yeah. I hope girls are watching. And you can take that quote and twist it however you want, but when I say it, I mean I hope girls are watching women stand up for themselves, and I hope they are taking notes. That's what the real Miss Americana should be, and that's the Miss AmericanaI'mgoing to be."

Finally, I'm out of words—or, at least, I'm out of words and bravado—and I'm staring at the small crowd of fans and reporters when it happens.

I hear a single set of claps from my left, where Miss Georgia is standing, a wide smile on her lips. I smile back, and more claps start from another woman I don't know but recognize as a popular social media influencer. Her phone is up as if she's been recording my entire tirade.

God.

I totally am fucking this whole thing up.

More claps start around the room, fifteen or twenty people here to witness everything, then some cheering. I start to panic because what am I supposed to do with this? Encourage it? Try some form of damage control. I'm not completely sure.

Of course, he sees it. Jaime sees the panic taking over.

"All right, shows over," Jaime says, voice booming through the small room. "Everyone out."

"There's still—" the PR manager squeaks out.

"No, there's not. Ava will sign some things for whoever we didn'tget to, but we have a police report to file, and Ava needs to rest after all of this." I blink at Jaime, whose face is as hard as stone, something the reporters definitely see because, without any argument, they start to leak out. And I'm grateful because adrenaline is suddenly gone from my veins, leaving an uneasy panic in its wake.

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