Page 17 of The Heiress

Photos of everything exist. Everything. No, not the naughty shit we did up on the balcony, but everything else that mattered. God. If anyone knew about me trying to finger Lorde or her touching me until I came… I would die! Not to mention my parents arriving to throttle me. I think my mother would literally head to the nearest cathedral and light a candle to the Virgin Mary to make this all right.

Speaking of my parents, they desperately want me to go home and hide out there for a while. The only thing on my side is that my father doesn’t bother with the tabloids or gossip, and my mother quickly found out how many deplorable lies they spew when she moved here to marry my father. Back in Italy, she only had to worry about the busybody gossips in her affluent village. Here? She had barely stepped off the plane in 2000 when the tabloids were saying she was having affairs with five other men. My mother was a proud, God-fearing virgin when she married my father, so you can imagine the strokes she had upon facing the American gossip mill.

So they don’t care… for now. Except my father has called me no less than once a day to suggest I go to the family estate to “relax.” Oh, and there’s someone there he wants me to interact with. Maybe take a few pictures with. Like I don’t know what he’s up to after the stunt he pulled over a month ago…

My maid has brought me my usual stacks of magazines, but I can’t bring myself to look at them. My old favoriteThe Daily Socialis headlining with a picture of me as red as a tomato while Lorde implies to her mother that I am a perverted slut.

To Camilla Sheen. The woman who has so many Oscars she needs a walk-in closet to display them. And Lorde was teasing me about fingering me in front of her famous mother? Can I die already?

Pictures of me and her are in every tabloid. On every blog. On the lips of every idiot who thinks they know all about us now. People have been tagging me on Facebook about it. Who does that? Isn’t it bad enough that there are a million articles speculating why I slapped America’s favorite hot mess?

Meanwhile, I’m not letting myself think about her.

Which means I try to stop it, but sometimes those toxic thoughts still slip through.

On one hand, I’m too embarrassed to even acknowledge what we did in the theater, but on the other… it’s quite telling that she hasn’t said a single thing about this kerfuffle to the media. From the sounds of it, the media shitstorm has sent Lorde Sheen into hiding. Where? I have no idea. Maybe her shitty apartment, or one of her mother’s many homes. Maybe she’s in Boca porking some floozy who is so happy to be another notch in her metaphorical bedpost. God, why am I thinking about that? Why am I letting it make me angry?

The whole thing is only mildly shocking. I was expecting a photo of her leaving a club with a model totally shitfaced by now.

I don’t let myself dwell on it too much, because Lorde Sheen is a complete, utter asshole. I don’t want anything to do with her. I swear it.

My phone keeps ringing – and has been all week – but I don’t answer it unless the ringtone says it’s Daddy or Ashleigh. Not many people have this number. I don’t know if the media got a hold of it or what, but I don’t want to take my chances. At this moment, I’m too busy throwing magazines into the recycling bin.

However, staring at my moldy donuts makes me realize that something has to give.

A sigh powers me through the next hour. I take a shower and go sit down to do my hair and makeup. Somehow, even though I’ve been existing on junk food for the past week, I seem to have lost weight. My cheekbones are jutting out even more than usual, and it’s not a good look for me. Now if I get papped, people will say that I have an eating disorder.

On a whim, I pick up my phone and check my messages. I press play on the first one out of thirty-seven.

I pick up my small makeup brush and start applying eye shadow. I nearly stab myself in my left eye when I hear Lorde’s voice.

She’s pleading with me. Pleading! I don’t catch any of the words because I’m trying to concentrate on my makeup, but that is a pleading tone in Lorde’s voice. I should turn the message off and delete it. I don’t. I tell myself it’s because I’m too stubborn for my own good. Yes, that’s it. It has nothing to do with her deep, sexy voice. The voice that was murmuring all that nasty shit into my ear while she fingered me…

Lorde is apologizing. She’s sorry. She fucked up. She was nervous about me meeting her mom. She feels strange around me. She trips over her words in a rush to get them out, and it’s kinda cute, I guess.

Next, she attempts to flirt with me. Not going to work. If anything, it’s making me angry. Then again, I can’t say I hate hearing a ton of compliments hurled in my direction after my week of endless self-pity.

Now she’s annoyed because it’s been almost a full week of me not answering my phone and she really, really wants to talk to me. Did I know it’s even worse for her because Ashleigh refuses to give her my address? Poor thing! Smart Ashleigh.

Yet… why am I kinda mad that she hasn’t given her my address? Sure, I’d be pissed based on principle, but then Lorde would be here…

Everything Lorde says goes from angry, to frustrated, to flirtatious and then some more apologizing for everything she previously said. By the end of it, I am completely exhausted. My makeup also happens to be finished, and it only takes me a few minutes to get dressed in something simple. All that’s left is to take a deep breath and prepare myself for my first foray into the outside world after a week of seclusion.

I figure some shopping never hurt anybody, so I call my driver and he confirms that he’ll be waiting for me downstairs in a few minutes.

Even though I know better than to leave early, I am so restless that I can’t take being cooped up in here any longer. I grab my purse and sunglasses, toss my cell phone into my bag, and take off for the fresh summer air.

As soon as I step out into society, I regret my decision. A whole swarm of photographers are camped out in front of my building, and I can barely shade my eyes with my sunglasses before they start snapping their cameras in my direction.

Questions regarding Lorde are fired at me. I ignore every single one of them. This isn’t my first walk of shame, although I am sure to keep my chin pointed high in pride as I approach the sidewalk where my driver will be.

That’s when I am convinced that I have gone insane. Because that’s the only explanation for seeing a woman who looks a lot like Lorde Sheen behind the tree across the street.

The paps must be so consumed with staking out my building that they never thought to look behind them. They thought Lorde Sheen would stroll right up to my door, did they? Pshaw. As if. Until a few minutes ago, I was led to believe she didn’t even know where I lived! (Whose ass do I kick? Ashleigh’s?)

My driver pulls up and helps me get into my car. Photographers are to one side, and Lorde is to the other, still keeping to the shadows. Against my instincts, I climb to the other side of the back seat and stare at her through the window. The weirdo stares back. She motions to the street behind her.

I tell my driver to drop me off two blocks over and to drive elsewhere to keep the paps off my tail. If nothing else, I will get some closure with Lorde. It’s time to move on from this haphazard tryst.

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