Ryan’s hand instinctively went to the small of your back. “Woah woah, well don’t talk to her like that.”

The paparazzi kept on blaming you though. Their flashes in your face of disparity and woe. The movies bad because of you. Not the director. Not co-stars. Not the writers. It’s your fault. At least that’s what they thought.

Its supposed to be a good night. The red carpet. The beautiful dress. Ryan.

Your husband continues to rub his thumb over the small exposed skin in your lower back, telling the interviewers and paps to cool it with the insults. They don’t like you and Ryan together.