Lacey Jayne leaned back into the velvet curve of her chaise lounge, a half-empty glass of sparkling water sweating in her hand. The floor-to-ceiling windows of her downtown loft framed a city that glittered like a consolation prize. Outside, millions of lives hustled past without a glance at her penthouse. Inside, a perfect, curated silence.
She tossed the phone onto a cushion. Love you. Did her manager love her, or love the 12% commission? Did her 8.4 million followers love her, or love the outrage when she wore the wrong thing, said the wrong thing, ate a carb? lacey jayne interrogating her ass
Entertainment , she wrote next. Her show was entertainment. Her Instagram stories were entertainment. Even her “private” moments, the ones she sold to docuseries, were entertainment. But what did she find entertaining? She tried to remember the last movie she watched without analyzing the cinematography, the last song she heard without wondering about sync licensing. She couldn’t. Lacey Jayne leaned back into the velvet curve