"You were a beat late coming into that section."

I heave out a sigh, planting my hands on my hips without bothering to lift my gaze from the glitter coating my silver knee-high boots. I know I was late. It's the fourth time one of my dancers has had to point out that I've skipped a step or lost my mark—just from this set.

"I know I was." It comes out sharper than I intended, but by now, I'm sure everyone knows I'm off today—that I'm distracted.

My head feels like it's stuffed with static, my thoughts scattered in too many directions. I haven't been able to think straight—not since Gwen showed up. Not since I spent thirty agonizing minutes pacing around August's living room, over-analyzing every tiny little detail: Gwen's expression when she saw me standing there, August going after her, the way everything feels like it's quickly slipping through my fingers.

I panicked—I know I did. But he left me for Gwen. And when he came back in, the look on his face, the way he said, I think we need to talk—it sent me spiraling straight to the worst-case scenario. To August telling me he wanted Gwen back. Why else would she show up at his house? Why else would he go after her?

I couldn't bear it—the thought of him choosing her over me.

I know what it feels like to be the one not chosen—with my dad, with Henderson—but with August? The idea of him looking me in the eye and telling me I'll always be second best? That would shatter me.

So I left.

"Let's run it again," I say, trying to ignore the tightening in my throat as his face flashes in my mind—his wavy hair, lashes damp with misty rain, his hand reaching for me, just as I pulled away. "Start it from the top."

A few groans ripple through the dancers as everyone resets. I can't blame them—it's nearly midnight, and rehearsals are running later than usual with the tour starting in just four days. Everything needs to be perfect, but I'm the one throwing things off. Missing my cues. Dragging my feet.

Because I know that when we finally wrap up and I go to check my phone, there will be more calls and texts from August. Asking, again, if everything is okay.

And everything is not okay. I can't talk to him until I figure out how to make sense of it all. Until I can figure out how to fix things.

I lift the lavender-colored mic to my lips as the click track in my in-ears starts again, signaling the song's about to begin—but then, over the music, I hear Andrea's voice cutting through from the left side of the stage.

"Maisie, I need to talk to you!"

Surprised, I turn toward her. I could've sworn she left hours ago. Apparently not, because she's currently striding briskly toward the stage, her laptop tucked under one arm, brown hair pulled back into a messy bun secured with a claw clip, and a long tan coat draped over a pair of gray... sweats?

"I need to talk to you," she repeats firmly when she reaches the edge of the stage. She's not wearing any makeup, and there are two under-eye patches clinging beneath both eyes. I wonder if she realizes they're there.

"Right now?" I ask, pointing down at the floor, my gaze lingering down to her sweats again before shifting to my dancers, who are all waiting for me to start the next set. "I'm in the middle of dress rehearsals."

"Yes, right now," she says, looking up at me, her foot tapping impatiently against the floor. "I need to show you something."

"Okay..." The word comes out like a question. I signal the others to take ten, and they scatter as I hop off the stage and head toward Andrea, who is waiting for me at one of the plastic fold-out tables shoved into the corner.

"What are you wearing?" I ask, pulling a chair closer to her and settling in. I wrap the sweatshirt I grabbed around my bodysuit, my eyes flicking to her sweats again and then down to the Tazz Uggs she's wearing. I'm still struck by the fact that Andrea isn't in some sort of blazer or skirt. "I thought you went home?"

"I did go home. I was asleep, actually, when Rachel woke me up, and I didn't have time to change," she says, opening her laptop. She lets out a deep breath, her fingers hovering over the trackpad as she stares at the screen for a moment before slowly turning to me. Her brown eyes meet mine, and there's something in them—something that looks like sorrow.

"What? What's wrong?" My chest tightens, my heart quickening. "You're not... dying or something, are you?"

Because, knowing my luck, I'd lose everyone I care about within the same day.

"No," she says quickly, but the edge in her voice doesn't do much to ease my nerves. "Do you remember how I told you I have that contact at TMZ? The one who helped me pull all those bad pictures of you and August making out in New York?"

I nod, and she twists her laptop toward me so I can see. "Well, they sent me these a couple of hours ago."

I lean in, and at first, I don't register what I'm looking at—it's a little grainy, clearly taken from behind a bush, with someone's back turned to the camera. But then my stomach drops. Gwen's face comes into focus, tilted up at August, and in the background, I can make out the gray cedar shingles of his house, his Easter-egg-blue door. That's when it hits me—this photo was taken this morning, right in front of his house.

"I'm assuming this is Gwen?" Andrea asks cautiously.

"I, um... Yeah," I manage as I stare hard at the image. August's face is mostly obscured, the angle hiding his expression, but Gwen's isn't. She's smiling at him.

"These pictures were taken this morning. They're planning to post these first thing tomorrow—if they haven't already."

I steal a glance at her from the corner of my eye. She's watching me quietly, as if waiting for me to fill in the blanks. She knows I was there this morning, that I stayed overnight. My car is unmistakably in the corner of the photo, parked right in August's driveway.

I haven't told her about last night or this morning. I haven't exactly wanted to talk about it.

"Okay, um." I force myself to swallow, willing myself to stay calm. It's just a picture. It's not that bad. Sure, he's shirtless, and she's looking at him like he hung the moon, but they're not doing anything. "Well, it's not like it looks bad. They're just talking."

Andrea doesn't say anything. Instead, she leans over and taps the arrow key on her keyboard, flipping to the next photo. And the next. And the next. The images click by like a stop-motion reel, each one worse than the last. My stomach churns as they finally land on a shot where it looks like August is leaning in to kiss Gwen.

I press my hands to my forehead, elbows braced against the table. I know that's not what happened. I know he wouldn't do that—not with me in the house. Right? I mean, this is August we're talking about. It's not like him to do something like that. But from the angle of the picture... God, it looks exactly like it.

"Maisie," Andrea's voice cuts through, pulling me back before I can spiral too far down the dark rabbit hole. "You told me you were with him last night—and this morning? What happened?"

Her question tightens the suffocating band already constricting my ribs, like someone's wound a hundred rubber bands around my chest. The pressure swells inside me, straining and stretching, just waiting to snap.

"I—I was. I was with him," I stammer, my throat wet and words tumbling out in fragments. "After... after my dad's, we went back to his house. There were paparazzi outside my apartment building, and I guess—I forgot to park my car at Marty's Lobster. I wasn't thinking. I didn't walk over like I normally do. I didn't... I didn't think they'd follow us all the way to Green Harbor—to his house."

Andrea doesn't say anything; she just looks at me like she's waiting for me to tell her why she saw me climb out of Rachel's car when I arrived at rehearsals. Why I showed up wearing August's clothes. Why I haven't spoken a single word about him since. Why I've been so evasive about dinner last night—and this morning, too.

"I slept with him," I rush out, pressing the back of my hand to my lips as hot pressure builds behind my eyes. "I had sex with him, Andrea. And then Gwen showed up this morning. And he... he went after her. He didn't stay with me. He went after her." My hand gestures toward the picture on the screen, and I swipe at a tear that slips down my cheek. "And I think I've made a huge mistake. I think I was wrong about everything—about the two of them. And I don't know how to fix it. I don't know how to take it all back."

She gives me a quiet look, her lips twisting down at the corners before she asks, "He came back to you, though?" I nod weakly. "Did he say what they talked about?"

I shake my head, swiping at another tear with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. "No, I didn't ask. I just started freaking out and got myself ready, and by the time he was done, Rachel showed up with the coffees, and I left with her."

Andrea glances back at the picture on the computer screen. "I didn't tell you this earlier because, between you coming back with Rachel and acting all out of sorts all morning, I didn't want to press. But August called me this morning."

My head snaps up. "He—he did?" My voice catches in my throat. "What did he say?"

She glances past me toward the stage, then back, as if checking to make sure no one is within earshot. "He told Gwen about the fake dating. Asked me to send her an NDA."

"Oh," I breathe, my hand instinctively pressing to the base of my neck, right over the mark August left last night, now hidden under layers of concealer. "Did she, um... sign it?"

"She did, yes." Andrea nods, her eyes flicking to where my fingers brush against my neck. "I'm guessing that's what they were talking about in the photos."

I know exactly what's going through her mind—because it's the same thing swirling in mine. The only reason August would tell Gwen this was all just for publicity is if he wanted to get back together with her. And with the pictures? The way she's looking at him? What other explanation could there be?

This is my fault. I had no business wishing for things that were never mine, things I couldn't keep, and now I've made an enormous mess of everything. I slept with my best friend when he clearly wants other things, and now I have to figure out how to stitch things back together. How to rewind the clock, undo what's been done, and just have August be my best friend again.

"Can we—" I swipe at another tear. "Is there any way to stop them? To pay them off or something, so they don't post the pictures?"

"That's what Rachel and I have been working on for the past few hours, but they're not budging. This," she gestures toward the screen, toward the picture of August and Gwen, "is the kind of gossip every outlet dreams of. And with your tour this week? The timing couldn't be more perfect for them. We've tried just about everything. There's nothing we can do."

I shift in my seat, pressing my sleeve-covered palm to my mouth as I nod, trying to swallow the knot in my throat.

"Maisie," Andrea says, leaning in to touch my arm. "As far as the world knows, you two are dating, and these pictures... they make it look like he's cheating on you. This is going to go viral. They'll be everywhere—spun and twisted in every direction imaginable. And now that the paparazzi know where August lives, they're going to swarm his house just like they've done to you. This isn't going to be pretty."

She pauses, her expression so wistful that I have to look away, my eyes settling on the gel patches beneath hers. "We're doing everything we can on our end. Your publicist is already prepping a response if needed. I'll send Ryan over first thing tomorrow with his team to install security cameras at August's house, just in case. After that, I'll sit down with him and go over what we know, figure out how to handle—"

"No, I'll talk to him," I say, swiping at my nose with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. This is my mess—I should be the one to clean it up. "I'll talk to August. I'll handle it."