Immediately, a slew of message alerts rings out. Most of the numbers I don’t recognize, so I figure they’re reporters and ignore them. When I see that Liam’s tried to call me fifteen times, I grip the phone so hard, I almost crack the glass. I throw the phone onto the couch and head into the kitchen. There’s only half a bottle of red wine left, but my name is written all over it. I don’t even bother with a glass. After taking a giant swig, I go back to the couch and turn on the TV. Of course, the first thing that comes on is an entertainment show about the Angeliam scandal. “Geez, Universe,” I mutter at the screen. “I usually like some foreplay before I’m fucked this thoroughly. You could at least buy me dinner.” I sit there like a zombie and watch as the media circus covers the scandal. It’s the Angeliampocalypse, complete with teary fan interviews, Hollywood insiders speculating about the future of the golden couple, and an actual graph predicting how much retail sales of Rageheart will suffer or soar if they split.
