The Seven Husbands of Taylor Swift

1

ALICE LANGLEY
I'm forty-two, a number that's supposed to signify having life figured out. Instead, I'm divorced, scraping by as a junior journalist in a one-bedroom apartment, with a cat as my only companion. It feels surreal to start my career over from scratch after such a major life upheaval. Following my dreams sounded great in theory, but the reality is harsh. I can't shake the feeling of being a complete idiot.

A chipped mug of cold coffee stares up at me, a silent accusation of wasted time. My reflection, framed by shadows I don't recognize, glares back. A photo of my son, a burst of sunshine against the bleakness of my desk, pulls at my heart. He's a world away, a life I'm desperately clinging to. I trace the lines of his face, trying to memorize every curve, every dimple. A memory flickers—a stolen moment of laughter, his tiny hand wrapped around my finger. The park, once a sanctuary of joy, now feels like a distant dream.

I can almost feel the sun on my skin, the soft grass beneath my bare feet. The sound of his laughter, like wind chimes on a summer breeze, fills my ears. He chases butterflies, his tiny legs pumping with exhilaration. I watch him, heart full, a world away from the chaos of my life. He's pure innocence, a splash of color in a world of gray.

A sharp pang of loneliness pierces through the idyllic memory. That carefree day feels like a lifetime ago. Now, every stolen moment with him is a precious commodity, a battleground I'm losing. My fingers trace the edge of the photo, the smooth paper offering cold comfort. The weight of the world, of the looming court date, crashes down on me. A sob threatens to escape, but I stifle it, the sound foreign in this silent apartment.

I look back at the chipped mug, a symbol of my shattered life. How did I let it come to this? A once-promising career, a loving family—reduced to this: a solitary figure in a one-bedroom apartment, fighting for the scraps of a life that was once whole.

I stare at the chipped paint on the wall, the same shade of beige I've grown to despise. The apartment is a stark contrast to the life I once imagined. A life filled with laughter, love, and maybe even a dog. Now, it's just me, the cat, and the echo of my own thoughts.

I run a hand through my hair, the strands tangled from a restless night. Another rejection email sits unopened in my inbox. Another day, another step back. How did I let it come to this? The girl who once dreamed of front-page stories is now clinging to the hope of a byline.

A sob builds in my throat. I'm tired. Tired of the uncertainty, of the pitying glances, of feeling like a failure. A wave of self-loathing crashes over me. What have I done with my twenties? My thirties?

Maybe it's time to give up. To accept that this is as good as it gets. Just as I'm about to hit send on a mass rejection email to all the job postings, my inbox pings. Curiosity, a spark long dormant, flickers to life.

With trembling fingers, I open the email. My jaw drops. It's from Taylor Swift, the global pop sensation. The same Taylor Swift whose music videos I choreographed in a past life, before the divorce and the career crash. She wants me to write an article about her upcoming charity concert. She wants to use our small publication company.

The world seems to tilt on its axis. This can't be real. Can it?

I reread the email, searching for a catch. But there is none. Just a clear, concise request and a deadline that's impossibly close. A surge of panic washes over me. I'm a junior journalist, clinging to the bottom rung of the ladder, and now I'm being asked to write about one of the biggest stars in the world.

I look at my reflection in the smudged mirror. This is my chance. A lifeline thrown into the abyss of my self-doubt. It's terrifying, exhilarating, and utterly insane, all at once. But then a wave of doubt crashes over me. Me? Write about Taylor? The same Taylor Swift who's a multibillionaire with millions of fans? It's like being asked to write a sonnet when I can barely string a sentence together.

I laugh, a bitter sound in the quiet apartment. This has to be a sick joke. A cruel twist of fate. I'm in way over my head.

I quickly forward the email to my boss, my heart pounding. There's no way I can pull this off. Taylor deserves someone better than me. My boss replies instantly, her panic evident. She assures me she'll handle it, but an hour later, everything changes. A new email arrives.

"Only you," it reads. "I will only take Alice Langley or the piece is off."

My heart pounds in my chest. This can't be happening. I'm being thrown into the deep end, no life jacket, no diving board. Just a cold, unforgiving plunge. Fear, excitement, and disbelief war within me. I'm the junior journalist with a cat and a chipped paint job, and I'm about to write an article about Taylor Swift.

I'm going to drown, or I'm going to swim. There's no in between.

I have no choice but to agree. The realization that I'll be interviewing Taylor Swift, the global sensation, sends a jolt of panic through me. How am I supposed to act normal around someone who has sold out stadiums and broken countless records?

My heart leaps into my throat. A meeting with the same Taylor whose concerts have been the soundtrack to everyone's teenage years? Panic sets in. What am I supposed to wear? What am I supposed to say? I'm a regular person, living in a one-bedroom apartment, and now I'm going to be face-to-face with a global icon.

A cold shiver runs down my spine. What if I fail? What if I can't capture her essence, her magic? What if I write something so terrible that she blacklists me from the face of the earth? The possibilities are endless, and none of them are particularly pleasant.

My cat, a ginger tabby named Valentine, curls up on my lap, oblivious to the internal turmoil raging within me. His purr is a comforting hum, a small island of peace in the storm. I stroke his soft fur, trying to ground myself.

A wave of nausea washes over me. I'm completely unprepared for this. I don't know anything about the music industry, about celebrity culture. I'm a small-town girl who has stumbled into a world of glitz and glamour.

But the biggest question of all looms in the back of my mind: Why me? Why does Taylor Swift, the biggest pop star on the planet, want a small-time journalist like me to write about her charity concert? What does she see in me that I can't see myself? Is this some sort of cruel, elaborate prank?

Doubt gnaws at me. Maybe I'm deluding myself. Maybe this is just another dead end, another rejection waiting to happen.

But then I realize something. I have nothing to lose. Literally nothing.

The weight of the world, or at least the weight of Taylor Swift, settles on my shoulders. I'm a small fish in a very big pond, about to be thrown into a shark tank. Panic is my constant companion, a cold, clammy hand gripping my heart.

I spend the next few days in a blur of caffeine and research. I devour every article, every interview, every social media post about Taylor Swift. I learn about her philanthropic endeavors, her songwriting process, her impact on pop culture, and the crazy fact she's been married seven times. It's like cramming for a final exam, only the stakes are infinitely higher.

I try on every outfit I own, none of which seem appropriate. I practice what I might say, but every sentence sounds stupid. I'm completely and utterly out of my depth.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror, the woman looking back at me a stranger. This isn't the me I know. This is an imposter, a fraud. I'm about to meet one of the most famous people on the planet, and I feel like a complete and utter failure.

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Short Chapter but I promise they get longer!

:D