Late May’s warmth enveloped Greenwich Avenue, the trees in full bloom as I sat on my apartment’s worn couch, my phone buzzing with notifications I couldn’t ignore. Two weeks had passed since TMZ and E! News unmasked me as Kayla Reed, the “waitress in Justin Drake’s beach romp,” my life—my job at The Gilded Spoon, my thrift-store gown, my struggling roots—splashed across headlines and X posts. The grainy Tod’s Point beach photo from our passionate night haunted me, but Justin’s arms, his fierce I love you, kept me grounded. Meeting his family—Eleanor’s cool gaze, Lila’s warmth—had been hard enough, but the world’s judgment was heavier. Now, Justin was in New York City, launching a press tour to control the narrative, to protect us. My jet-black hair fell loose, my navy T-shirt and jeans a f
