Chapter 4

After a long day, the paparazzi were the last thing Marianne wanted to deal with. Her words slipped out before she could think, but she honestly didn’t care. After a tense pause, she made her escape, pushing through the crowd toward her apartment doors. The guards stationed there came to her rescue, blocking the photographers from getting inside.

"Thanks," she said, giving them a nod before heading to the elevator.

Her apartment required a special key card to activate the elevator. She pulled it from her purse, tapped it against the scanner, and pressed the up button.

Marianne glanced back at the doors and saw the paparazzi finally leaving. If she could, she would make their profession illegal. She didn’t understand their obsession with being invasive all the time. Sure, they captured some interesting celebrity shots, but that didn’t justify their behavior. Cameras in hand, mouths running—they should just stick to photography.

Her apartment was painted in shades of white and grey. It was always bright thanks to the large windows, and although sunlight annoyed her, it kept her awake and productive. If she’d chosen a darker space like she originally wanted, she knew she wouldn’t be nearly as efficient.

She didn’t like to think of herself as a stereotypical L.A. girl with a nice car and apartment, but in some ways, she was. The difference: she wasn’t an influencer. She was a psychologist who had gained fame after helping a famous couple years ago.

Being famous had never been her goal—she only wanted to help people.

The door to her apartment let out its little chime, signaling to her cat, Penelope, that she was home.

The grey kitten strolled around the corner and padded up to her. Marianne had found Penelope abandoned near her apartment one day. She had taken her to the vet, checked that she was healthy, and grown attached. She’d never regretted keeping her. Penelope was sweet and affectionate, always curling up on her lap.

"Hi, baby," she cooed, kicking off her shoes.

Penelope purred against her leg as Marianne scooped her up, holding her close.

"Look at you being all sweet."

Penelope licked her arm as they moved into the apartment. The late afternoon sun illuminated the space, and Marianne sighed contentedly as she set Penelope down in the kitchen. Grabbing a juice box and a muffin, she retreated to her room and collapsed onto her bed. She tried not to eat in her room, but it was irresistible—pizza or ice cream in bed while watching a show was too comforting to resist.

The rest of the day was spent lounging. She pushed client thoughts aside for now. While scrolling through Twitter, she saw recent news about Vivienne Cross and Dylan Carter. The article showed pictures of them arguing in their car as they drove home, while another photo captured them leaving her office—Vivienne clearly agitated, Dylan looking exhausted.

Determined to not slip back into work mode, Marianne closed the app and focused on herself. She would deal with them in their session the day after tomorrow.

Her Instagram, meanwhile, was blowing up with messages about the couple. She rolled her eyes—did people really think she would respond? She posted a story asking them to stop; she could not share client information.

"I should have denied them. I should have. These two are going to bring nothing but trouble," she muttered.

The next day, she had an appointment with the college students. Marianne tried to persuade the father to stay involved, but he seemed reluctant.

"Mr. Brian, it seems you are hesitant to stay with Ms. Fredrickson, but I implore you to reconsider. You’ve been attending the sessions, which must mean something, right?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I just want to see, you know? Nothing else."

Marianne sighed. "I don’t know if you’re avoiding responsibility out of fear or indifference, but helping raise this child with Ms. Fredrickson could be a chance to turn your life around. Focusing on parenting and building a relationship could benefit you, so I must insist that you at least try."

"Please try with me," Marissa pleaded.

He rested his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands. Silence filled the room as they waited.

"I just… it’s a lot. I don’t think I can. I’m sorry." He abruptly stood and walked out.

Oh, dear. Marianne inhaled sharply and looked at Marissa, who stared at the door in shock. Tears ran down her face.

"Oh no, sweetheart, it’s going to be okay." Marianne stood and gently sat beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder and rubbing it soothingly.

Marissa slowly turned toward her, then back at the door. After a moment, she bolted from the couch, stumbling slightly, and rushed toward the door.

"Don’t chase him!" Marianne called, sprinting after her.

She missed the elevator entirely, heading for the stairs. Marianne groaned but followed.

Marissa flew down the stairs as best she could in heels. Frustrated, she kicked them off, continuing barefoot. She couldn’t remove her skirt, but it didn’t stop her.

They raced down several flights with Marianne shouting for her to stop. Finally, on the ground floor, Marissa burst through the stairwell doors into the parking garage, barefoot.

Frantically, Marianne spotted her racing up the ramp toward the street.

"Don’t do that!" she yelled, spotting her security guards. "Stop her!"

The guards took off after her, and Marianne ran behind, emerging into the street. A few pedestrians were present, giving her a clear line of sight to Marissa and Eric trying to get away. Marissa screamed at him, and Marianne pushed herself harder to catch up.

Suddenly, a camera flashed. Marianne glanced left, horrified, seeing several photographers aiming lenses at them.

"Block the cameras! Protect them!" she shouted at her security. She couldn’t risk their identities being exposed.

Her feet burned against the asphalt, but there was no choice. Soon, it seemed, Marissa exhausted herself and came to a stop.

Marianne rushed to her, gripping her shoulders. She was trembling from sobbing, her face red and wet. People were staring, but Marianne ignored them, leading Marissa into the shade under a nearby restaurant eave.

She rested her head on Marissa’s shoulder, stroking her back gently.

"It’s alright. It’s alright," Marianne repeated. "You’ll be alright. You’ll be alright."