Page 36 of A Summer of Stars

“Very,” she said, leaving it at that. “You look surprised,” she thought aloud.

“I always had the impression that siblings found the older brother overbearing,” I responded, thinking of Mila refusing to speak to me for two weeks because I had “involved myself in her life” when I punched a kid who wouldn’t take her no for an answer.

“Oh, he’s definitely overbearing.” She laughed, her hand shifting toward my neck. I struggled to listen the more her palm moved. “The last time he called me was Wednesday at two in the morning to talk about our father’s financial choices. That’s usually a cover-up to talk about something else, of course, because men are too insecure to just come out with what they actually want to say.”

The idea of Aldridge listening to her brother in the middle of the night to appease him painted a picture I couldn’t draw. The end of her statement sounded like excess ramble that had nothing to do with Walt, though, and more to do with something else.

“Do you ever just avoid the calls?” I asked.

“Never. He may be a pain in my ass, but I love him.”

I turned my head just enough to see a small smile on her face. It was tucked away over my shoulder for no one to see, like a rusty locket pried open for the first time in years. Quietly staggering yet completely contained.

Maybe this was a test. One that persuaded me into vulnerability and gave her ammunition to use against me. But even then, I still felt compelled to ask her more, to unravel more strands of information about this woman I’ve hated for so long.

But when I twisted my gaze back to the sea of lamps and heads, I found cameras staring right back at me, reminding me of the purpose of this conversation in the first place.

“The True Timeline Behind Luna Aldridge and Kieran Alexander’s Romance”

—Hello London!

KIERAN’S PUBLICIST, NARI,had directed us to the exit: a back door that many of the other guests had to leave through because other doors had been blocked off while the carpet was rolled up.

“You’re going to go down the hall until you see a steel door and exit that way. Your car will be waiting at the sidewalk, as will every photographer. Which means you have less than a minute from the time you get outside to the time you get into the car to appear romantically involved,” she explained.

My stomach buzzed with anticipation.

I was about to be photographed as Kieran Alexander’s newest girlfriend.

I was about to be photographed with a man for the first time since my ex-husband.

Kieran was the epitome of professionalism as we walked down the hallway, following my bodyguard. He wore no signs of stress or thought, like a stoic soldier preparing for the day’s drills. My handswere clammy, and suddenly, the height of my heels made me shaky. The smell of caviar from the kitchen was beginning to make me nauseous.

The words were squeezed out of me: “I can’t walk out first.” He turned quickly, surprised by the break in silence.

“Why?” he asked, over his shoulder.

All I could picture were the sudden shouts and flashes blinding me. They’d shoot me with personal questions that hit my chest like flying arrows, and my face would fall, and every emotion I was feeling would be evident in my eyes. They’d block my path and corner me, and for once in my life I think I’d cower.

They’d ask about Jeremiah.

“I’d rather not,” I responded. His eyes traced my discomfort, flicking to my unsettled nail picking.

“All right, let’s go.” He offered me his hand, stepping in front of me, no questions. It felt like a temporary truce.

The door ahead swung open. The air exploded with noise, but Kieran’s body shielded me from the lights. The city street was filled with more than just black SUVs and paparazzi. Onlookers from nearby restaurants and bars hoped to get a glimpse of one of the many celebrities who had arrived on the carpet hours before.

Once Kieran stepped out of the building and his presence was known, everyone erupted. He quickly waved to fans across the street as they cried his name, leading us to the car ten steps ahead. Two bodyguards divided a path, giving us space. He paid everyone quick glances, taking long strides across the pavement. Camera flashes blinded my peripheral vision, and the wine from earlier stirred in my stomach.

I stiffened, refusing to flinch. I couldn’t help but squeeze Kieran’s hand as the photographers shouted and pushed toward us.The air was thick, and the attention was heavy, but I focused on his shoulder blades and the feeling of his ring pressing into my knuckle.

His other hand came around to the side of my hip, as if to ensure I wasn’t pulled away, guiding me into the car.

We were only outside for thirty seconds.

We tore our hands apart the moment we were behind the closed door, facing opposite windows until we drove down the road, and Kieran stepped into a separate car.

My drive home was long and restless. Usually, on the way back to the hotel or home—it depended where I was staying—the weight of my dress would pinch my shoulders, and the sound of the radio would lull me to sleep. I’d wake to my driver, Craig, opening my door and letting the light in.