Mid-May’s warmth wrapped Greenwich Avenue in a golden haze, the trees lush as I walked toward Justin’s car, my heart a tangle of love and dread. It was a week since our night on Tod’s Point beach, our bodies entwined under moonlight, only to be shattered by a paparazzi flash. The TMZ headline—Justin Drake’s Steamy Beach Romp with Mystery Woman—had exploded, the grainy photo of us in the sand plastered across X posts, my face blurred but haunting me. I’d spent days dodging my phone, avoiding the whispers on Greenwich’s streets. Justin’s arms had steadied me, his promise—Together—echoing, but the world’s eyes felt like knives. Now, he’d asked me to meet his family at their Greenwich estate, a step that felt both thrilling and terrifying. My jet-black hair was loose, my simple white dress hug
