She thought back. Two months ago, maybe three. Her assistant, Chloe, had tripped over a monitor cable and spilled coffee down the front of a rented Oscar de la Renta. Lacey had laughed—a genuine, ugly, snorting laugh—before realizing the dress was insured for $45,000. Then she’d stopped laughing. Chloe had cried. Lacey had paid for the cleaning and told herself that was kindness.
A dull ache spread behind her ribs. Not a heart attack—probably not—just the slow realization that she had turned her own interior life into a brand, and the brand had consumed the original blueprint. lacey jayne interrogating her ass
She tossed the phone onto a cushion. Love you. Did her manager love her, or love the 12% commission? Did her 8.4 million followers love her, or love the outrage when she wore the wrong thing, said the wrong thing, ate a carb? She thought back
She stood up and walked barefoot to the kitchen—all marble and matte black fixtures, never used for cooking. On the counter sat a gift basket from a luxury wellness brand: CBD gummies, a rose quartz roller, a journal with MANIFEST embossed in gold. Lacey opened the journal. Page one was blank. She grabbed a pen from a drawer full of identical black pens (sponsored, of course). Lacey had paid for the cleaning and told
Then she turned off her phone, drew a bath with no bath bombs from any sponsor, and sat in the water until it went cold.