Vivian Divine Is Dead Read Online Free Page A

young love, Ines, is one of the most famous stories in history and, if rumors are true, my most important role since my Oscar-nominated debut in Abandoned . “Can’t I just hide at home?” I ask, glancing nervously around the trailer.
    “They can find you there. You can’t even leave your closet without being photographed.”
    Mary’s right. Paparazzi and tourists hide along our fence every day, trying to get a shot of me. There are photos of me everywhere: in my room, eating breakfast, stepping out of my closet in my fifteenth wardrobe change of the day. And if the paparazzi can find me, anyone can.
    “I’m not going anywhere,” I say, flinging open my closet and rummaging through dozens of designer dresses until I find Mom’s favorite stretchy green Pucci dress. It hasn’t been dry-cleaned, so I can still smell her on it, like lying in a field of lavender. “Except home,” I insist.
    As I tug the dress over my round hips, I think about how Mom didn’t run, leaving her family and career behind. Pride surges through me. Mom fought for us until the end. She wouldn’t want me to run; she’d want me to stay, to fight.
    But then again, she didn’t run. And look what happened to her.
     
    After glancing at myself in the mirror, I walk down the stairs and throw open the trailer door.
    Flashes stun me from every side, popping in my face. Nearly blind, I stumble forward, fighting to keep my smile on. Keep walking. This will end soon. But the flashing only increases, and faces of reporters, their eyes hidden by shiny black cameras, appear and disappear in lightning strokes. I can’t see anything as I stumble along, imagining a killer’s face in every grasping, screaming journalist.
    “Did you know about Pierre and Sparrow?” a reporter calls out, pushing a microphone in my face. I attempt to break out of the crowd, but someone grabs the hem of my dress. I try to paste on a bright smile, but my lips are trembling, so I’m half smiling, half frowning, and my waving hand feels disconnected from my body. I feel like I’m being sucked underwater by a surging, screaming undertow.
    “How does it feel to be replaced?” a journalist asks. I know what he wants me to say, so he can splash my heartbreak all over his trash magazines, but I can’t speak. My words waver, disappear.
    “Did you and Pierre break up?” another reporter asks.
    Break up? Until last night, Pierre had been the only person besides Mary who I could trust. He was the person I told all my secrets to, sometimes talking on the phone until the early hours of the morning. I had even told him my deepest secret: how I thought I could never feel happy again. And now I never will.
    “Everybody, back up!” Mary yells, popping out of the trailer behind me, but the reporters just jostle closer. “I’ll call security,” she says.
    It’s too late. The press is already here.
    Then I see, through the flashes, what drew them here. In the middle of the crowd are Pierre and Sparrow—together. That’s why all the paparazzi are here. To see the bloodbath.
    My skin bristles with anger. “What do you want?”
    “We need to talk to you,” Sparrow says, pushing through the reporters. Her whiny voice reminds me of the nights we used to stay up with Mary, listening to stories about first kisses and true love. Since Sparrow went to an all-girls school and I was homeschooled by a private tutor neither of us knew much about boys, until I started dating Pierre. Before she stole him from me. “It was a mistake,” Sparrow says.
    “Kissing my boyfriend was a mistake?” I shriek so loudly the reporters take a step back before lunging forward again. Get it together. Never lose your temper in front of the camera . I can see the headlines: Teen Star Slaps Former Best Friend in Fit of Rage. Career Plunges.
    “V, please.” Pierre leans toward me, placing his hand gently on my arm. He’s as sexy as ever, with his dizzying blue eyes and his shock of white-blond hair. I see