Two weeks have passed since I decided to keep my distance from Jasper. I ignore him at work, at home too. Jasper hasn’t said much to me since the night at the club. He proposed to me on Wednesday on a fancy yacht with rose petals on the floor, surrounded by flowers, taken by professional photographers, and uploaded on every social media. Bloggers ate those photos up like a kid in the candy shop. I received offers on free food and beauty products, and doors were open for me for interviews about my life. A few top-name modeling companies even reached out to me to be on the front of their magazines.

We have a photo shoot at one of Jasper’s mansions, in the gigantic master bedroom. I’m not feeling this shit, not one bit. My makeup is caked on my face and it feels heavy. Jasper’s hands are around my waist, and he’s leaning into my neck, breathing me in. I want him to touch my body, but then again, I don’t. My hormones go haywire around him.