"I'm hoping to get reacquainted with her really soon." Wyatt laughs. "Anyone know how I can get in touch with her?" His expression of hopeful bewilderment plays to the crowd. His brazenness is achingly familiar. He wasn't the only one who'd loved hard. "Wyllie was huge when you two were together. I think people even wore t-shirts picking sides when you split. The two of you have never spoken publicly about what happened." Wyatt's grin fades. "Ellie's a classy woman." He holds up a finger. "The best woman. I mean, look at that face." He points to another, more recent photo that's appeared behind Jackson. "Brains, beauty, the biggest heart. Our breakup was my fault—completely my fault. I couldn't give up the drugs." Then, he adds, "I didn't want to get off them then." "And where are you at now?" Wyatt or his people approved all these questions. Unbelievable. He rarely talks about his drug use. We've never spoken about each other. You ask, you get blacklisted from talking to me. I assumed Wyatt had the same rule since he'd never talked about me openly either. A constant stream of buzzing comes from my phone as calls, texts and social media notifications flood it. If I ever see Wyatt again, it'll be too soon. I'm ghosting the jackass harder than I have been the last ten years. Is that even possible? We'll see. "I've been drug free for two years now. I'd never tell anyone sobriety is easy, but I'm ready to put the past behind me." Sure, Wyatt. All talk. He might be sober right at this moment, but completely sober for two years? Impossible. His morning routine consisted of popping some pills and drinking a coffee, often chased with a few shots of alcohol or a couple beers. Wyatt, even when he looked sober, was never stone cold sober. Just a taste. A little something to take the edge off. There was always an edge that needed dulled. To be on stage talking about them, well, he must be on something. "I'm sure people battling their demons take a lot of hope from your words." Jackson turns to the audience. "I think we all thought when Isaac died as he did that tragedy have been enough motivation to get sober." Did he just say Isaac? He's letting Jackson talk about Isaac. Wow. Talk about a shot across the bow. Wyatt tips his head. "It should have been." Sometimes I hate myself for watching these interviews. "Remind me again where you and Ellie met?" Jackson stares at Wyatt with raised eyebrows. He knows. Everyone knows. We had the biggest movie in the world the year it came out. "On the set of Love Letters from Spain," Wyatt says. "Ellie—well, she's the greatest love of my life." His eyes bore into the camera, coming through the screen, threatening to burrow back into my soul. "I was a fool before, but I'm not a fool anymore." In a panic, I turn off the TV. Then, I quickly turn it back on. What in the world is he doing? Why is he doing this? Jackson laughs. "You're going to reignite #Wyllie fans." He did not just do that. Another great rush of buzzing comes from my phone, but I refuse to look at the notifications. People can think what they want. I don't need to answer to anyone. Besides, I'll have levitated off this island to commit Jackson's murder soon. "Maybe they deserve to be reignited." Wyatt winks at the camera again, a cocky, playful smile bursting onto his face. This time when I turn off the TV, I do it with finality. We wouldn't have needed to be reignited if the jackass chose me instead of an eight ball. Emotions are rushing through me, hard to identify. Anger, for sure. Fear. But under those is one I don't want to consider because it feels a lot like hope. What could I possibly hope for? He's lying. Wyatt lies. He's not sober. I pray my manager is mobilizing my PR staff, otherwise this stunt could spin out of control. It took years for the swirl around us to die down enough for me to spend more than a few days at a time in Los Angeles. Those damn team t-shirts were everywhere, breaking my heart, mocking my choice. In a daze, I wander down the narrow hall to my bedroom at the back. Although I can afford a lavish house, I have a small three-bedroom bungalow on an oceanfront lot. It's not fancy, but it's perfect. I never needed all the Hollywood pomp and circumstance, just the right place and people. Wyatt never understood that. My security intercom buzzes, and I go to the nearest receiver to press the button. "Just about to go to bed, Freddie. What's up?" "Uh, Ellie, I have a man here who wants to see you." His voice is tentative. "It's late. I have jet lag. No one who knows me would come this late." I frown. Probably some stray member of the press here on holiday, seizing the opportunity to secure an interview before I get swarmed tomorrow. "It's Mr. Wyatt Burgess, Ms. Ellie, and he says he isn't leaving until you agree to speak to him." Ice freezes my veins and then fire chases it out. Turns out I don't need to levitate off the island to commit murder tonight. "Oh, Freddie. I have a thing or two to say to Mr. Burgess. You can deliver him to the door." "Yes, ma'am." A grin is evident in his voice. He must have watched The Late Show, too. I check my appearance in the hall mirror and then scold myself. I don't care how I look. I'll see him just to tell him to go to hell. National television to declare his undying love after ten years and a series of bad choices. I don't think so. Not happening. Going to the side entrance where all expected guests are delivered, I swing open the door. Immediately, I realize my mistake. He's taller than I remember, which seems ridiculous. That's not all, though. No, his dark hair is a little darker, his blue-green eyes more electric, everything jumps at me all at once. My heart does one loud, crushing thump and falls to pieces. Ten years, gone in a heartbeat.