I push through to the bedroom and am so busy texting my glam team, asking them to remind me where we decided to meet to do hair and makeup before the red carpet, that I almost miss the naked guy sprawled across the bed. I stop only to scrutinize his face, because even though he’s lying on his back, I don’t recognize him, and just as I start to wonder what the hell I was thinking coming up to his room, I see it. A faint veil of snow where his mustache would be if he wasn’t clean-shaven. I flick my gaze to the nightstand. There’s a half-smoked joint, some pills—whites, blues—and an empty baggie we must have spent all night working our way through.

Somehow I make it to our suite in the Hôtel Plaza Athénée with enough time for my glam team to get me HD-ready. I know they can smell last night on me, but I appreciate their silence as they pat, swipe, blend and slick. I practice my smile in the car and by the time I’m in front of the huddle of paparazzi, it’s so effortless, no one can see how every flash is killing me, the sudden bursts of light exacerbating the banging in my head. I use the energy of the crowd to push through it, angle my face for each photographer as they call my name.

Taylor. Taylor. Taylor.

Everyone clicking and watching thinks I have it all. They think my life is perfect. They think I’m perfect.

They know nothing.

A shiny Benz brakes soundlessly at the crown of the runway as soon as I step out onto the tarmac. The impeccable timing briefly distracts me from the agony of my pulsing, blistered feet. I scoop the bottom half of my heavy gown into my arms midyawn and dump myself onto the creamy leather backseat. I should have put the one-of-a-kind, hand-beaded dress back on the rack after the step-and-repeat, but I was too worn out to peel it off before I rushed straight to the airport for my eight-hour flight back to New York. They will just have to deal with it until tomorrow. I’ll ship the thirty-thousand-dollar dress back to the studio with an offensively expensive bottle of Cheval Blanc from my father’s private cellar and everything will be fine.

As soon as my driver tucks himself behind the wheel, I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Did you get the package?”

Without a word, he slips me a small, nondescript box. I hold down the small button until the partition creates a wall of privacy between us and lower my mask-like Celines to inspect the vial. The golden liquid is still warm in my hand.

I roll it around in my palm a few times, then tuck it into the inner slit of my bag.