mirror over the sinks. Shit, she looked awful. Not her hair and makeup—those were perfect, thanks to a team of stylists—but her eyes were wide with anxiety, her jaw rigid, and she looked . . . skittish, almost. As if she were ready to leap out of her skin at any moment.
Damn it. No, she knew just what she looked like—that damned picture on her grandmother’s refrigerator! She could almost see the word “DUMPED!” hovering over her head.
Not this time, Kitty Sanchez, Jasmine thought. This time, I dumped him.
Except that didn’t make her feel any better. And it didn’t exactly feel true.
After leaving the restroom, she sent Lily a text.
Jasmine: I’m leaving. Feet hurt. Too cold in here. See you later. Drink more water!
And then she ducked out a side entrance and took a taxi back to the hotel.
The whole way, she fought back tears. This was the wrap party for a show she had starred in. She should be happy!
She was miserable.
This is why you don’t date costars, dummy, her brain shouted at her. So much for being a Leading Lady. Go back to soap operas where you belong.
At her hotel room, Jasmine let herself in and turned on all the lights. After kicking off her shoes and shimmying out of the dress, she went to her shoulder bag, pulled out her wallet, and removed the Leading Lady Plan she’d created with her cousins. She stared at her grandmother’s name on the top of the paper for a moment, then with deliberate, decisive motions, she tore the paper into tiny pieces and left them scattered on the dining table that was haunted by memories of Ashton.
Still clad only in a strapless bra and shapewear, she dragged out her suitcases and began to pack.
Goodbye, New York City. Jasmine Lin was going back to Los Angeles.
So what if she’d never truly been happy there? Who cared if she felt betrayed after people gave quotes to the press about her breakup with McIntyre?
She didn’t care anymore. It was what she deserved. How stupid to think she could have more.
Her Leading Lady Plan had been hopeless from the get-go. She would never be all the things she aspired to be. And she had once again ruined a good thing.
If ScreenFlix offered her a second season, she would see what she could do to get out of her contract. She just couldn’t be around Ashton anymore.
When the first suitcase was full, she stopped packing long enough to call Riley. The call went to voice mail. She kept the message short and to the point.
“Hi, it’s Jasmine. I’m done here. I’ll be catching the red-eye back to LA tomorrow night. Get me back on The Glamour Squad, please. I don’t want to have anything else to do with Carmen.”
Her voice broke on the last word and she quickly ended the call. Then she ignored the calls and texts that came through in response as she booked her flight. As much as she wanted to leave right that minute, her cousins would kill her if she missed the party tomorrow.
Besides, she’d worked too damn hard on it, and she wanted to see her grandmother’s reaction.
Too bad she couldn’t manage the one thing that would have truly made Esperanza’s day. Just another thing she’d failed at. Jillian would always rank higher. And Jasmine . . . would always be alone.
Tears streamed down her face as she tossed the phone aside and resumed packing. Might as well be alone in LA, where the summers were dry and the winters were warm.
When she was done, she put her suitcases next to the door, laid out her outfit for the next day, and popped an over-the-counter sleep aid to knock herself out.
One more day. She just had to get through one more day, and then she could put all of this behind her.
ASHTON WAS HALFWAY through packing the next morning when someone knocked on his hotel room door.
For a brief, wild moment, he both hoped and feared it would be Jasmine. But after the way she disappeared from the party last night, he was sure it wouldn’t be her.
Still, he hoped.
When he opened the door, his father stood on the other side. Ignacio took one look at the open suitcases in the room beyond, and gave Ashton a bland smile.
“Going somewhere?”
Ashton rubbed the back of his head and ducked his gaze. That look and tone always got him, never mind that he was rapidly approaching forty. “Ah . . .