Every day I turned my camera on, sat in front of my tripod, and recorded myself doing my makeup, hair, or getting ready for an event. My supporters watched wishing they had the newest designer bag that I had just worn, or the mountains upon mountains of PR every brand sent to my front door. They wanted to be Harlym J., and I mean, I couldn’t blame them. I made this lifestyle look like a piece of cake with three cherries on top.
What they didn’t see was the breakdowns, tears, and weekly visits to shake my titties for a perverted correction officer just to see my man. They didn’t see the arguments and moments of loneliness while all my other friends were moving on with their lives. They were getting married, getting pregnant, advancing in their careers, and all I was getting was action from my rose.
I wanted to hate Ashton Willshire. I mean, he’s self-centered, rude, and cocky as ever. There was no way I was going to give up something familiar for uncharted territories. I don’t know if it was the gold teeth, the tattoos, or the way he tied his du-rag. All of it drove my senses haywire, and I hated it.
So, yeah … thanks.
