Page 4 of 7+Us Makes Nine

d suddenly descended into my world again.

Hollywood Harlot Anya Petrov Seen Stumbling Out Of Rehab Clinic

“Turn it off,” I said.

“Yes, sir.”

The woman couldn't keep her damn act together to save her life. I met my ex-wife on the set of the movie that catapulted my career. She was the headlining act that would sell the dark historical romance and I was the fresh new face of leading men. That movie catapulted me to a fame as an actor I could have never dreamt of otherwise, but it also catapulted me into a torrid affair with the most sought-after Hollywood woman in history. Anya was a powerhouse, and a fucking talented woman. I’d fallen in love with her on set, but it wasn’t until we wrapped up our last day and I’d gotten the courage to ask her out on a real date.

We were married four months later and created a beautiful family together.

Anya was passionate about adoption. She was adopted, and she’d always wanted to adopt from the Ukraine-- where she was originally from-- instead of having children naturally. Her reasoning was that she got to keep her body for the screen, she got to fulfill her want to be a mother, and she got to get children away from the horrid circumstances they faced in countries like the one she was from. And I admired that. I loved her all the more for it.

But then, she slipped into the partying scene.

The drug scene.

And stuck me at home with three children who wondered where the hell their mother was.

The divorce was swift. Anya had been caught stumbling out of a ‘high house’ and wandered out into the middle of the street. She was almost hit by an oncoming car and it made headlining news. That was the beginning of our downfall. That was when I finally came to terms with how bad her partying had gotten. Two times I had begged her to get sober. Once before we divorced and once directly after. And until then, I gained custody of all three of our children.

Two we adopted from the Ukraine, and one surprise child we had naturally.

Anya didn’t like that at all.

“Do you want to draft a statement?” my secretary asked.

“I’ll do it before the end of the day but tell anyone who calls that if they call again, they won’t get my statement,” I said.

“Will do, sir.”

I closed my eyes and leaned back into my chair, listening to the sounds of the growing press outside of my theater.

The conditions of our custody agreement were simple. Anya couldn't see the kids-- even with supervised visits-- until she got sober. That was it. She checked herself into rehab for the second time in our relationship just after our very public divorce finalized. She got out and had supervised visitation with the children every weekend, but then she came over one time and was clearly high. I had her escorted off the premises and hadn’t heard anything from her until I caught wind that she’d checked herself into rehab again two weeks ago.

I had hopes for this recuperation, too. For the sake of the kids.

Until this damn media storm.

My phone rang in my pocket and I picked it up. The only person who would be calling me at this time of the day would be my nanny, Gertrude. She was a lovely woman, and a hell of a tank to run behind three children during the day. I hired her on permanently once I gained custody of the kids two years ago, but I was soon going to lose her due to retirement.

And she deserved it. Every ounce of it.

But it meant I had to prepare myself to find another nanny.

“Hello, Miss Gertrude.”

“Daddy?”

“Michaela?” I asked. “Are you okay?”

“She wanted to talk with you!” Gertrude exclaimed in the background.

“What is it, sweetie?” I asked. “Did you have another nightmare?”

“Yeah.”

“What was it about?”

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