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 the smug asshole sitting across from her.

Little did he know, he was dealing with New Jasmine.

She smiled sweetly, and while her tone dripped with honey, she let the Bronx out. “I will not be answering questions about anything related to my love life, at this time or any other. Let’s keep this interview focused on Carmen, ’kay? Now, do you have any other questions?”

The interviewer stumbled over his words as he shuffled the cards in his lap. What the hell, were all of them about her ex-boyfriends?

So she did something Old Jasmine never would have had the guts to do, but Carmen sure the hell would. She stood and waved Tanya over to deal with him.

“We’re done here,” Jasmine said, and with a toss of her hair, strode away without looking back.

Once she was out of sight, she resisted the urge to high-five herself for drawing a clear boundary and sticking to it. But the pride was tempered by sheer annoyance. The absolute fucking nerve of McIntyre. Oh, he missed her, did he? He wished he hadn’t broken up with her via tabloid while gallivanting around Cabo with a model half his age? That was fucking rich.

Old Jasmine would have taken that as proof that she was worthy of a man’s attention and run back to him for validation. New Jasmine just wanted him to take her name out of his damn mouth.

Still, the adrenaline rush from the confrontation left her a little shaken, so she made her way to catering for lunch. She hadn’t felt up to eating breakfast that morning, and she needed food and more caffeine. As she was fixing a cup of coffee, a squeaky voice behind her shouted, “¡Comida!”

Jasmine abandoned her cup just in time to catch the tornado of elbows and knees that crashed into her.

It was a little boy with sandy blond hair and familiar brown eyes. She immediately recognized him from the photos she’d seen online. His wide, gap-toothed smile won her over instantly, and she couldn’t help but grin back, even as her heart twisted.

“Yadiel!” Ashton’s voice came from around the corner, not sharp, but concerned. When he stepped into view and saw them, he froze.

“Like father like son,” Jasmine said wryly, helping Yadiel back onto his own two feet. Then she picked up her coffee and raised it in a mocking toast.

Ashton’s lips pressed into a straight line and he didn’t reply.

“¡Papi, mira!” Voice full of glee, Yadiel gestured expansively at the array of food. “Hay mucha comida aquí.”

“Sí, mijo,” Ashton said gravely. “But you just ate.”

“Pero quiero comer eso,” Yadiel replied, pouting.

Since Ashton still hadn’t even deigned to acknowledge her presence, let alone make introductions, Jasmine picked up a plate and addressed Yadiel directly. “¿Qué quieres comer?”

As Yadiel turned starry eyes on the trays of food and snacks, Ashton moved closer. “Inglés, Yadiel,” he said, when Yadiel started chattering about the food in Spanish.

Jasmine rolled her eyes and muttered, “I do know some Spanish.” Enough to talk to children, at least.

Ashton finally met her eyes. “He speaks English too. It’ll be good practice for him.”

The mention of practice made her recall her own Spanish lessons with Ashton. He’d been unfailingly patient with her . . . almost like he was used to teaching a reluctant learner. At the time, she hadn’t given it much thought. But now, after meeting his son, things were starting to fall into place. His kindness, the bad jokes—holy shit, they were dad jokes not bad jokes—and how he was always texting with his father.