It hurts so much because I was—

I was—

I was happy.

And now I am unraveling stitch by stitch.

I don’t stop running until I shove open the hotel doors and stumble out onto the sidewalk. It’s pouring rain outside. My flats get soaked the second I step into a puddle, but I can’t stop because a few people are still following me. Haven’t they gotten the hint?

Just leave me alone!

I wrap my arms around myself as I bound off the curb and make my way across the street to my hotel—

A car horn blares.

I jerk toward the sound, headlights blinding, tires squealing. The burning smell of tires punctures the scent of muggy rain on asphalt as a black car screeches to a stop just inches away from me.

I stare at the car.

The back passenger door opens and out steps Natalia Ford, her gray hair pinned into a bun atop her head. She’s wearing a shirt covered in a pattern of tiny artistically rendered middle fingers and a blood-red ascot.

I swallow the lump in my throat.

A clash of thunder rumbles overhead, reverberating between the tall buildings. Behind me, a few fans and the journalist burst through the doors in search of me.

Natalia tilts her head and steps back into the car, which I take as a sign to join her. I round the car, open the door, and slide in. The car drives away before my fans realize which way I’ve gone; I watch them disappear in the rear window as we take a side street out of downtown Atlanta and away from the convention.

“You know, I’ve heard rumors that you dislike conventions,” Natalia says, “but sweetheart, tossing yourself into traffic isn’t quite the best way to get your point across.” She crosses one leg over the other and I notice Stubbles perched in her lap, staring at me with jaded green eyes.

“I wasn’t looking,” I reply. I don’t realize it at first, but I’m shivering.

Natalia turns up the heat. The windshield wipers knock back and forth, the constant thrum of the rain dampening the sound of my chattering teeth. Her white-goateed driver faces forward, wearing a slick black suit. There are rumors that he’s also her, um, boyfriend, which reminds me a little too much of The Princess Diaries—except with Julie Andrews replaced by Meryl Streep from The Devil Wears Prada.

“Thank you, Ms. Ford,” I say after a moment.

“For what?” She slides her hazel gaze over to me. It’s just as sharp as her tongue. “I merely almost ran you over and then you decided to get into my car.”

Oh. I clear my throat and reach for the door handle. “You can tell your driver to stop anywhere and I’ll get out—”