Page 1 of Single Mom's Bodyguards
1
BAILEY
The first thingI notice is the flash of cameras, fireflies with teeth. The second is how the sequins on my dress catch every cruel light just a second too late, like they’re trying to defend me from being consumed.
“Miss Beausoleil!” someone calls. “Bailey! Over the shoulder!”
I turn, giving them what they want—a practiced smile, a curve of my hip, the kind of glance that says I’m flattered, unbothered, just barely out of reach. I’ve worn this face so long I can’t always feel when it slips. But tonight, it holds. Tonight, I have to be golden.
The charity gala is at a vineyard turned private estate, where the stone walls are old money and the ivy had a better upbringing than I did. It’s all candlelight and catered silence, the kind of place where people pretend they care about starving children while comparing who has the bigger Netflix deal.
I walk the press line slowly, step-by-step, every movement deliberate. My heels are a work of architectural genius—expensive, sculpted, and punishing. The corset’s custom, deepemerald satin that hugs every curve and lifts everything just so. The gown flares at my waist in a swirl of green sequins that sparkle like envy under a spotlight.
I look like I belong here. I know that.
But knowing andfeelingare different things.
A hand appears beside me—small, clipboard-equipped, trembling with tightly coiled energy. “Miss Beausoleil, they want a few candids by the fountain. Golden hour’s fading, and the stylist said your hair would pop in that light.”
Chocolate waves, pinned on one side with vintage pearls, curl around my shoulder. I smile at the intern, who can’t be older than twenty-two, and nod. “Lead the way.”
As we move past the last camera, I exhale. Not enough to ruin my posture, just enough to stay upright.
I’ve done worse than this. I’ve done press tours with strep throat. I’ve smiled through premiere nights while pumping breastmilk between interviews. I’ve filmed back-to-back projects on four hours of sleep and a drawer full of caffeine patches.
But tonight hits different. Maybe it’s because I left Eli crying at bedtime. He clung to my arm like the edge of a cliff, lower lip trembling. “Mom, do you have to go?”
And I lied. Like I always do. I told him it was just a fancy dinner and I’d be home before he even noticed I was gone.
But he always notices.
Jessica texted half an hour ago to say both kids were finally in bed, fed and settled. I should’ve felt relief. Instead, I just felt hollow. Like I traded a bedtime story for a photo op. Like maybeI’m faking it all—the career, the parenting, the woman who looks like she has it together when she was brushing cracker crumbs off her bodice on the way here.
I force another smile as we pass under the archway of twinkle lights strung between lemon trees. The scents of jasmine and cologne mingle in the air, expensive and aching.
Everywhere I look, there are people I’ve shared screens and trailers with. A director whose film I nearly said yes to before I realized he only wanted me as a punch line. A producer who called me “brave” for refusing to lose weight after having kids. A publicist who tried to spin my divorce as a mutual separation.
There are hands holding cocktails and eyes scanning for gossip. There’s laughter that sounds like champagne flutes being tapped just to shatter.
“Bailey!”
The voice is syrupy and sharp. I turn to see Madeline Ray, a starlet ten years younger and half as tall, but twice as relevant this year. She hugs me like we’re old friends and not just two women who fought over the same SAG campaign slot.
“You look amazing,” she gushes. “I love when actresses don’t conform.”
I swallow a reply and thank her instead. What Iwantto say would get me blackballed faster than a leaked sex tape. I keep moving. It’s easier when I don’t stop. When I don’t give myself time to think.
Because tonight is supposed to be about good press, networking, maybe locking down that indie drama that starts filming inBerlin this fall. It’s supposed to be about reclaiming the version of myself I almost lost.
Not the woman who spent three years walking on eggshells. Not the one who hid bruises under red carpet gowns and apologized for using safewords that didn’t matter.
That version of me is gone. Buried under therapy bills and a custody agreement that makes my skin itch. But even now, when I’m standing in heels that cost more than my first apartment, in a dress sewn to make me look untouchable?—
I still feel it.
That heat. That prickle at the base of my neck. That sixth sense honed from years of pretending I was safe. Someone is watching me.
I move toward the fountain at the edge of the courtyard, the one the intern promised would make my hair “pop.” It’s a pretty spot—rose petals floating in marble basins, gold light threading through the mist of falling water.
