I’m all glammed up, curls bouncing as I strut through the place—barely holding it together, but no one bats an eye. I walk like I own this place.

Because, let’s be real—I do.

Another day, another meaningless interview. The kind I only sit through because my agent David—the little fucker—forces me to.

So here I am, smoking my third cigarette in twenty minutes, because if I don’t, I might start putting my fists through walls.

I’m here. In this big, cold, hollow warehouse—shoot after shoot. But I’m not really here.

Haven’t been, not for a long time. Checked out around the same time I learned it’s better to fight first and ask questions never. Daddy always said, survival of the fittest.

Funny thing, though—Daddy’s not here anymore. Bastard overdosed after beating the shit out of his teenage girlfriend.

Not that anyone noticed. Or maybe they did—just didn’t care. If it’s not glitz and glam, no one wants to look too closely.

I finish the smoke and grind it out under my heel.

And I know I shouldn’t be doing this in here—But I need something to dull the edge before it cuts me to ribbons.

I pull out the little baggie, that familiar white powder glinting like a cruel joke. No card, no straw—nothing. So I pour it out on the chipped bathroom counter, shape the line with my freshly manicured French tips.

Real classy. Real chic.

Then I do it—snort it clean, sucking up every grain.

And Jesus fucking Christ.

I stare at myself in the mirror. Daddy was right. I’m more like him than I’ll ever admit. He might’ve been a junkie, but he wasn’t stupid.

Wasted potential. That’s what I like to call it.

For a second, there’s peace. Blissful, dangerous quiet.

Then the door creaks open and I flinch so hard my heart spikes in my throat.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“Stas—?”

You’ve got to be kidding me. Out of all the people who could’ve walked in—It’s him. The only one around here who actually seems to give a shit.

He freezes in the doorway, jaw tight as his eyes sweep over me: Me clutching the counter like it’s the only thing keeping me upright—because it is. The baggie still sitting there. The second line waiting for me like some sick invitation.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Anastasia.” He drags a hand down his face.

I hate this.

The sound of disappointment in his voice.

I hate even more that it hurts.

“Look, I was stressed and—”

The words trail off, thin and useless. Because what am I supposed to say?

Please don’t yell at me. I’m already unraveling. I’m so high I can hear my own heartbeat drowning everything else out.

No.

So I just lean there, knuckles white on the counter.

Waiting. For anything. For whatever comes next.