Lacey Jayne Interrogating Her Ass Direct

A dull ache spread behind her ribs. Not a heart attack—probably not—just the slow realization that she had turned her own interior life into a brand, and the brand had consumed the original blueprint.

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. lacey jayne interrogating her ass

She thought back. Two months ago, maybe three. Her assistant, Chloe, had tripped over a monitor cable and spilled coffee down the front of a rented Oscar de la Renta. Lacey had laughed—a genuine, ugly, snorting laugh—before realizing the dress was insured for $45,000. Then she’d stopped laughing. Chloe had cried. Lacey had paid for the cleaning and told herself that was kindness. A dull ache spread behind her ribs

The silence answered.

She flipped to a new page. When did I last laugh? Not a “for the camera” laugh. A real one. The floor-to-ceiling windows of her downtown loft framed

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?