Page 77 of Y'allywood Billionaire

I’m sound asleep when a pounding at my door sends me jumping out of bed, so jarring I almost topple over. Who the hell is here in the middle of the night?

I check my phone to see that it’s eight-thirty in the morning. How is that possible? I’d slept all night, not even under the covers.

I’m forced to get up when I hear Skye say, “If you don’t open up, I’m going to break in through your office window again. And I’m getting too old for this shit, Riley. So open the damn door.”

“Yeah, open up,” Eva says. “It’s me, Sophie, and Skye.”

“And West.” He sounds out of breath.

Oh my God—it reallyisbad. Of course it is.

When I open the door, my friends rush in looking like they saw a ghost. Eva is carrying this morning’s print issue ofLove Buzzand hands it to me.

The headline article says, “ALL AN ACT.”

West is looking at his phone when he says, “Page Six says, ‘RILEY CAN ACT IN REAL LIFE BETTER THAN ON TV.’”

“West, how do you think that’s supposed to help me?” I yank his phone out of his hand and toss it on the chair.

“Sorry, cuz.” He snatches his phone back and examines it.

“Sorry.” I look at the cover ofLove Buzzto see that below the headline is one picture of me looking like I’m ugly crying—from a scene inUrban Dawn—and another of Maddox looking furious, with a big rip between us.

I let out a howl before flopping on the couch. Farmer jumps up next to me, and I cuddle him.

Eva sits next to me and pulls me into a hug. “What can we do?”

I point to the eviction notice on the coffee table. “I’m getting the boot because of Farmer.”

Eva rubs my back. “Oh, sweetie.”

I sniffle. “Can you help me move my stuff out?”

“Of course,” Eva says.

West sits at my feet. “This is the shits, Rye. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks, cuz,” I say through a hiccup.

I look at Skye. “Can you puppysit Farmer?”

“It’s not puppysitting when he’s our grand-puppy.”

I hug the couch pillow. I have to get out of here. “Thank you. After we get me moved out, I’m going back to Scotland.”

“You do that.” Skye stares at her phone. “But first, you need to go meet with Smith. He’s calling me nonstop.”

Well, Maddox and I came clean, and now, career-wise, we have to see where the chips fall.

I walk to Smith’s office, dread trickling down my spine. When I step in the door, he’s sitting behind his messy desk, his face all pinched up.

I’m toast.

“Take a seat.” His soft voice seals the deal—this is the end of the road for me.

I don’t sit. “This doesn’t sound good.”

“Look, Riley.” He interlocks his fingers. “It’s been less than twenty-four hours since you and Maddox’s little rogue announcement, and this PR shitstorm is snowballing. There’s a growing boycott on the show, directed at you. And right now, we don’t know if we’re going to get a third season. I’m on cleanup duty.”

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