As if she weren’t 100 percent aware of her own romantic failings.
Also, those things had happened to Seth long after they’d broken up and had nothing to do with her.
It hurt, being made out to be some kind of wild woman who threw herself at every man she worked with. Especially since, deep down, she worried it might be true.
She was just looking for love. What was so wrong with that? Granted, she was clearly looking in all the wrong places. But the headlines cut her to the core. Gems like HERE ARE 8 OF JASMINE LIN’S MOST MEMORABLE BREAKUPS, JUST IN TIME TO MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER ABOUT YOUR OWN MISERABLE LOVE LIFE. Jasmine didn’t think any of her breakups were particularly memorable, and she declined to go down memory lane with the photo slideshow. Or SOAP SLUT? JASMINE LIN’S ON THE PROWL WITH HER LATIN LOVER COSTAR AND HIS SECRET BABY. Slut-shaming and an offensive stereotype, all in one headline? Real classy.
And another by her good friend Kitty Sanchez that made an old quote from Seth sound like it was from McIntyre: DESPERATELY SEEKING JASMINE: EX SAYS “SHE WAS OBSESSED WITH ME.”
So much for her Leading Lady Plan. Clearly all anyone cared about was who she was fucking. Why bother trying to do more?
Anger flared—at Ashton, but also at herself.
She’d done it again, given her heart and her body to someone without any kind of assurances that they felt the same way.
Even she couldn’t ignore the patterns anymore. She’d seen them during that horrific brunch with her family, as if there were glaring neon signs over the heads of her parents and siblings that read, HERE IS THE SOURCE OF YOUR EMOTIONAL BAGGAGE! UNPACK ME!
She didn’t want to. She wanted to leave it all bundled up and locked away. But once you knew, you couldn’t unknow.
This was it, then. The final straw that would break a lifelong pattern of looking to men for external validation, for proof of her worth.
No. More.
The Leading Lady Plan, written in a mix of her handwriting and Michelle’s, flashed in her mind, reminding her that she was a badass queen who was whole and happy on her own.
Old Jasmine would have tormented herself with what-ifs and all the ways she might have done something to cause this.
New Jasmine refused to take the blame for the actions and choices of others. This was not her fault. She had not forced the media to obsess over her. She had not made Ashton hide his son. And she certainly hadn’t done anything to warrant the kinds of headlines being written about her.
From now on, she would never again allow anyone to make her feel like her worth came from the man she was attached to. Not her parents, not the media, not goddamned Kitty Sanchez, and not herself either.
Fueled by fresh resolve, Jasmine threw back the covers and stalked to the bathroom mirror to check her eyes. Not puffy, despite her restless night. Maybe her grandmother was on to something with this snail stuff.
Instead of waiting until she got to the studio for her first hit of caffeine, she padded into the suite’s tiny kitchen and brewed herself a cup there. Maybe it would help her get her head on straight before she got to work.
She spent the morning filming opposite Peter Calabasas on the sound stage outfitted as the Serrano PR office. Ashton was nowhere to be found, but then, he wasn’t in that scene. After that, Jasmine was booked for an interview, thanks to Tanya, the hardest working publicist in the business.
A PA had set up two chairs off to the side of the sound stage, along with some lights. Jasmine took a seat opposite a pale, gangly man with short dark hair. The first few minutes of the interview were fine, mostly questions about Carmen, but then he blindsided her.
“In a recent interview, McIntyre let it slip that he misses you and wishes things had ended differently. Do you have a message for him?”
What. The. Fuck.
Behind the interviewer, Tanya squeezed her eyes shut and slapped a hand to her face in disbelief.
Out of sheer habit, Jasmine’s smile remained fixed to her face. But inside, anger rumbled like a volcano about to erupt. All of her hurt feelings about Ashton, McIntyre’s betrayal, and the stress of watching the career she’d busted her ass to build devolve into clickbait, churned like burning lava ready to spew . . . and incinerate