The Princess and the Fangirl (Once Upon a Con #2)(63)

“Imogen?” Harper asks, giving me a strange look. “What’s happening? Who’s this woman?”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and my eyes burn because I’m on the verge of tears, and this is not how I want to be seen in public. This is not how Jessica Stone is seen in public. My chest begins to tighten as I stumble out from behind the booth. “I’m so sorry—”

The first phone camera flashes and I flinch.

I can barely breathe. No, I think. No, this isn’t how this is supposed to happen.

“Excuse me,” I mutter, forcing my way through the gathering crowd, leaving Harper at her booth, surrounded by the chorus of my name.

“Jess! What do you think of the script?” someone shouts.

“Isn’t she at a meet-and-greet?”

“Can I have your autograph?”

“I LOVE YOU JESSICA STONE!”

But all I can hear are the Instagram comments, and all I can see are the Photoshopped images from trolls online. The crowd begins to follow me, and even more people turn to watch. My brown hair is slipping out of my beanie, and I don’t have time to push it back up again.

I break into a run—and they follow.

Please stop, I beg. Stop following me.

Turning down the last artists’ aisle, where the plushies are, I mutter a plea for forgiveness before I toss the entire rack onto the floor in the hopes of blocking the crowd from pursuing me—or at least slowing them down.

The girl in the booth looks up from her smartphone just in time to see me knock over the rack and squawks, “NO!”

But the plushies tumble across the floor, and I sprint toward the emergency exit twenty feet away. The art-deco carpet swims in my vision, and I can’t seem to catch my breath.

If I’d never thrown away that script, if I’d never thought of this foolish idea to have Imogen impersonate me, if I’d just breathed and kept to myself and pushed my feelings down beneath my toes and not fallen for Harper Hart, then I wouldn’t be in this situation.

But I can’t get the look on Harper’s face out of my mind, the confusion morphing into betrayal as she realized who I was. The kind of person I am. How long I’ve lied to her. Oh God, I lied to her and that’s unforgivable and I can feel a bit of my heart breaking because I remember how she looked this morning as the sunlight poured through the curtains, her face inches from mine as we whispered to each other, “Good morning.”

And it hurts.

It hurts so much because I was—

I was—

I was happy.

And now I am unraveling stitch by stitch.

I don’t stop running until I shove open the hotel doors and stumble out onto the sidewalk. It’s pouring rain outside. My flats get soaked the second I step into a puddle, but I can’t stop because a few people are still following me. Haven’t they gotten the hint?

Just leave me alone!

I wrap my arms around myself as I bound off the curb and make my way across the street to my hotel—

A car horn blares.

I jerk toward the sound, headlights blinding, tires squealing. The burning smell of tires punctures the scent of muggy rain on asphalt as a black car screeches to a stop just inches away from me.

I stare at the car.

The back passenger door opens and out steps Natalia Ford, her gray hair pinned into a bun atop her head. She’s wearing a shirt covered in a pattern of tiny artistically rendered middle fingers and a blood-red ascot.

I swallow the lump in my throat.

A clash of thunder rumbles overhead, reverberating between the tall buildings. Behind me, a few fans and the journalist burst through the doors in search of me.

Natalia tilts her head and steps back into the car, which I take as a sign to join her. I round the car, open the door, and slide in. The car drives away before my fans realize which way I’ve gone; I watch them disappear in the rear window as we take a side street out of downtown Atlanta and away from the convention.

“You know, I’ve heard rumors that you dislike conventions,” Natalia says, “but sweetheart, tossing yourself into traffic isn’t quite the best way to get your point across.” She crosses one leg over the other and I notice Stubbles perched in her lap, staring at me with jaded green eyes.

“I wasn’t looking,” I reply. I don’t realize it at first, but I’m shivering.

Natalia turns up the heat. The windshield wipers knock back and forth, the constant thrum of the rain dampening the sound of my chattering teeth. Her white-goateed driver faces forward, wearing a slick black suit. There are rumors that he’s also her, um, boyfriend, which reminds me a little too much of The Princess Diaries—except with Julie Andrews replaced by Meryl Streep from The Devil Wears Prada.

“Thank you, Ms. Ford,” I say after a moment.

“For what?” She slides her hazel gaze over to me. It’s just as sharp as her tongue. “I merely almost ran you over and then you decided to get into my car.”

Oh. I clear my throat and reach for the door handle. “You can tell your driver to stop anywhere and I’ll get out—”

“Don’t be silly. We’re going much too fast. Plus there’s a paparazzo trailing us.”

I glance behind me, and sure enough a black SUV with tinted windows is following us a few cars behind. “I didn’t even realize. How did you know it was there?”