The story is out. I wake up to countless unread messages and reporters and paparazzi parked outside my gates. My publicist and manager are ringing the bell incessantly. My assistant lets them in. It isn’t their first time seeing me wild-haired in my pajamas.
“Don’t worry, we’ve got all this under control.”
“Tell us what you need.”
I pause. “I want to walk my dog to the beach.”
We look out the window at the chaos of shoving reporters and flashbulbs, knowing they’ll never be able to give me the one thing I crave – freedom.