TWENTY SEVEN

We look at the photo of us kissing outside the art gallery, locked in each other's arms. I'm kicking myself because I should've known better. A major exhibition like Shanelle's would undoubtedly attract a large number of journalists. I'm usually very careful to avoid the paparazzi, but I wasn't as careful last night.

The photographer used a wide-angle lens and made sure they were hidden from view. This type of invasion of privacy is one of the primary reasons I avoid such public places. It's also why I prefer tinted windows in my cars, because these photographers have no boundaries. My personal life should not be open to public scrutiny over a cup of coffee and eggs in the morning.

Amelia's early morning call about the photo, combined with the fact that the office phones had been ringing nonstop, made me sick to my stomach. The paparazzi give me a headache and are a major pain in the arse. The last thing I need right now is a slew of questions directed at me, or, worse, ru