“I brought you a trash bag, Wills,” Ivy says with a slither.

“For what, Ivy?” I say with rancorous sarcasm dripping from my tone.

“For all your shit, sister dear.” She laughs, her face not moving from her tight-lipped sneer.

“You bitch,” Kirby fumes.

“You have ten minutes, Willow,” she continues. “Make sure you turn in your keycard to the offices as well as any other property of Logan Agency you might think you have rights to. Ten minutes, Willow, to remove all your shit and don’t let me see you back here again.”

Perhaps, it was years of verbal abuse from my father, sister, and Brad. Maybe it was years of self-hatred finally boiling over the tipping point. Coming to a head between who I was and who I have worked so hard to become. Or maybe I just finally had enough. Recognizing when you hit the ground of rock bottom and it turns into quicksand puts into perspective that you really don’t have anything left to lose. They’ve taken it all, but they will not get my pride. Whatever the driving force behind it—I snap. And I don’t snap in a pretty, ladylike fashion where I whip off a metaphorical white glove and slap some faces.

No. Not me.

In typical Willow fashion, I go big when my crazy surfaces.

“I hate you!” I scream. “For years, I’ve been your punching bag. For YEARS, I’ve put up with everything you’ve thrown at me verbally. I’ve been nothing but a glorified human pile of crap for the two of you to step in whenever you need to feel better about yourself. You want me gone? Every piece of me? Fine!”

I look over at Kane. The instant reminder of our first encounter has me ripping my hand from Kirby’s and bending to snatch my shoes off my feet, tossing them at Kirby. Not this time, heels, not this time. She catches them easily despite her shock. Moving toward Ivy, I grab the bag before marching over to my desk. I throw in anything that isn’t ‘Logan Agency’ property. I’m a tornado of mental torment chanting mine over and over again as I snatch whatever I can. Pencils, pens—mine. Tape—mine. Notepad—mine. Little pillow for back support—mine. Mug with a cute little kitten on it—mine. All freaking MINE!

I stomp from my desk to the coffee table in the sitting area, grab all the magazines I had been in charge of buying each week from the little vendor on the corner of our building, and throw them in too. The fake flowers sitting on the small table near the hallway mouth are thrown in the bag too since I was the one who purchased them in the hopes of adding some happiness around here. Happiness! Ha, what a joke.

In my hysteria, I throw open the kitchen door and start to dump sugar packets and coffee stirring sticks into my bag. Because I’ll be damned if I let him make his demanded coffee with ease. Have fun finding three sugars now, jerk!

By the time I’ve grabbed anything I could deem general property, my trash bag was full to the point of straining the lining. I huff back to Kirby and thrust the bag at her, making her fumble a little to keep hold of my shoes and grab the balled up end.

I puff a piece of hair that had come loose from my bun so that it is no longer in front of my face. With one last look at my boiling-mad father, I grab my iMac desktop. With a strength I never thought possible, I pull it from its connecting cords before I heave it forward and watch in satisfaction as Ivy scampers out of the way. My eyes leave Ivy’s weird dance to watch as the computer slams through one of the panels of glass that make up my father’s office walls before it crashes to the floor in a rain shower of glass at the foot of his desk.

“There, Dominic,” I pant angrily. “There is the rest of your stupid property. Thank you for reminding me that I luckily share none of your blood. If I never see you again, it will be a day too soon.”

I look over toward Kane, wondering again why he was even here to begin with, but when I see Ivy in his arms, I stop caring enough to ask. I know for a fact she doesn’t know him. She looked as shocked as I did that day in the lawyer’s office. But leave it to her to hook her claws into another man who’s spoken for. Let’s hope his relationship fares better than the one Ivy has already succeeded in ruining.

Just as well.

“Be careful with that one. Her bite is deadly,” I mumble heatedly toward him.

His eyes fire at mine before looking down at the woman in his arms. Apparently, he’s just noticing for the first time that she is wrapped around him like a little monkey. No, monkeys are cute. Snake. That’s it. Like the deadly snake she is.

I don’t give any of them another second of my time. I can feel the tears coming, but I refuse to let one drop in this room. I vaguely hear Ivy say something as I walk through the room and down the hallway. My silent, shoeless footsteps pad quickly and the tapping of Kirby’s heels follow right behind me.

Without a backward glance, I leave behind another part of my life that was slowly drowning me.

Six months earlier

The offices of Buchanan and Buchanan

I’M NOT EASILY ENAMORED WITH someone. In my line of work, a beautiful face is a dime a dozen, and usually, those beautiful faces hold nothing but vapor between their ears. It’s made the simplest of relationships all but impossible. The intrigue was missing. Nothing there was compelling enough to keep my attention past a quick glance.

I wouldn’t say I’m a saint, but I’m losing interest in meager exchanges of sweaty bodies and awkward good-byes. That dreaded period of holding my breath and waiting to see if our shared encounter would make it into the rags. Meeting someone when you’re a celebrity of my status has also been a big consternation for the last few years. Women want Kane Masters the icon and not Kane Masters the man. They couldn’t care less what makes me tick, what makes me happy, what goals I desire for my future. They want the status and money that comes with being on my side. The only future they can see is one I would have to pay for.

It’s been fifteen long years since I starred in my first lead role. Fifteen years of nothing but success that has no chance of slowing down anytime soon. I could stop making movies tomorrow and that success would never die. It used to be the only thing I wanted in life. Acting was my one and only aspiration. It was never a question of if I would become one of the most demanded names in Hollywood—it was always when. Two years after my first major motion picture role, I won my first Oscar. The year after that, another. Multiple awards followed. SAGs, Golden Globes, BAFTA—British Academy of Film and Television Awards—you name it; I hold it in a shiny case in the media room of my Malibu beach house.