Spiraled ⚪⭐⚪⭐ (A Brollins Novel)✔

EPISODE NINETEEN

Quinn's Mansion. Los Angeles, California.

Her cheeks burn from smiling too large and big, but the cameras refuses to stop clicking pictures and the host of the party doesn't seem to stop fawning over her anytime soon. It's only a matter of time before her eyes glaze over due to the blinding shot of light which eventually follow after every shutter sound of the camera and the smile she's desperately clinging to her face disappears and gets replaced with a scowl of pure impatience.

It hasn't even been thirty minutes since she arrived at the party and she already wishes she can just snuck back to her bedroom. She reminds herself she has to go through this so neither her brother nor her mother, can ever complain in the future that she did nothing to wipe the blemish away from her family's name. Her mother is standing close beside her, seamlessly instructing her with a solid hand to the small of her back on which direction her head should swerve to next when a camera moves back for another to take its place and for an inexplicable second, Rebecca is actually grateful for her mother's presence despite the palpable lack of trust from her.

Her mother has long strived at being a perfectionist on and off the cameras, at home and work. Hence, it doesn't surprise her much how well-organized the party is. The dessert table adorned with all kinds of cakes and assortments causes her stomach to rumble and although her mind is still stubbornly adamant not to enjoy this party tonight because of a reason that may not hold any depth after ten years, she can't deny she's eagerly anticipating her birthday cake. She has often looked forward to the cakes on her birthday than the actual people who will attend the party.

Scanning through the guests in attendance now, some huddled together in groups—mostly the young men and women—and a majority of the others seated in their chairs with glasses of champagne in hand, their gazes riveted on her while they murmur among themselves—no doubt gossiping about her—Rebecca can't say she recalls a familiar face among them until she spots a stout man who she'd almost missed due to his bald head. Mr. Spears has the same round face she can recall back at her ninth and first ever birthday party and that piercing glint in his eyes when he handed her a holiday ticket to Paris which she accepted graciously but gifted it to Fergal afterwards, more interested in the toys and presents her father was going to give her than a holiday trip to Paris. She smiles when their eyes meet, more amused at the little hair left around his scalp than anything else and quickly notices to her surprise, that just like Mr. Spears, most of the guests appear genuinely happy to see her.

She's never thought she has what celebrities will call 'fans' in her line of work. To her, liking something is much different than being a fan and that's how she saw all the people who praised and admired her work; just people who liked her paintings but not fans who will waste their precious time in waving or asking for selfies or autographs when they come across her on the street. But now seeing all these bunch of young people practically shaking with joy at the sight of her and one even yelling through the soft yet high-pitched tune of the violin playing about how much she loved her last set of paintings, she realize she may have fans after all. Perhaps, if she'd gone on social media instead of listening to the news and watching gossip shows on television, she might've seen there are people out there that actually cared about her. People who weren't just mocking her about the wedding scandal. Fans, despite them being guests at her birthday party, are here and in spite everything, it feels good.

"Thank you, thank you," Annette exclaims to the cameras, beckoning her daughter further away from the inquisitive paparazzi. "You can ask her whatever questions you have later." With that promise and a quick icy glare from Rebecca at her mother—for she isn't looking forward to be interrogated—the cameras lower much to her relief but it's short-lived when Fergal and a woman she can only guess is the girlfriend he was talking about this morning cross her path. The woman looks every bit enthusiastic to meet them, her knuckles turned white from clutching her black purse too tight. Rebecca passes a warm smile at her direction but the dark-skinned woman's blue eyes aren't fixed on her. They're planted on her mother.