Bowl in hand and hair damp from my shower, I collapsed on the sofa in my living room later that night. It was eight o'clock and my dinner had been delivered just as I was coming out of the bathroom.

The change in routine had thrown me for a loop. This was my first time using the amenities in my new house and I'd almost been nervous to do so, wanting to preserve the purity of this new chapter of my life for as long as I could.

In London, my apartment had been an upscale bachelor pad that I was in and out of, only sleeping there on a good day. Now that I was back in the States, that apartment was nothing compared to the luxury of my first real home. I'd never needed fancy things, just comfort.

Now, showered and make-up free with my hair freshly tousled, I was ready to kick back and allow myself to explore the space. The TV was already on and playing some French romance film. I flipped channels, sifting through an assortment of game shows before settling on Chicago P.D.

Five mouthfuls into my stir fry, my phone buzzed beside my knee. Glancing at it briefly, I ignored the device when I saw it was another text message. They'd been coming in all day from people who were excited I was back in town and wanted to catch up. Work had kept me from replying but I realised now that I wasn't quite ready to jump in all at once.

It sounded selfish but the constant stream of people contacting me was overwhelming. My plan had been to ease back into my life in California. Leaving London was hard enough. The tumultuous lifestyle of the past four years had taught me that I needed to keep my health a top priority, even if it meant delayed responses to messages sometimes.

I'd been seeing a therapist twice a week for the past few years. Now that I was back in Los Angeles, my file had been sent over from London to a new office I was yet to book an appointment for. The meetings had been useful in teaching me not to let myself get overwhelmed but I was still only scratching the surface when it came to self-healing.

That being said, I wasn't completely heartless. I sent a quick message out on a chain announcing I would respond in more detail tomorrow. Just before I could turn my phone off, it chimed with an email notification.

My time spent in therapy had taught me to block out the outside world when I needed a moment to ground myself. Normally I would've followed my own rules but this one was from Claire and the subject line intrigued me.

KENDALL ROSE. NEW RECRUIT. READ THIS!!!

I laughed softly out loud. It was typical Claire to be up at this hour and demanding I respond immediately to whatever she'd sent me. For a company Director, she still got excited over the small details of the job. It was wholesome and refreshing.

Opening my inbox, I tapped on the email and skimmed over its contents. The subject line had only been the beginning.

Inside the body of the email was a model profile. It wasn't my job to scout talent - that was already taken care of by the time they reached me - but Claire clearly wanted me to see this man's portfolio. For good reason too.

It was impressive, no one could deny that. At twenty-three years old the man had already modelled in Paris and Croatia and was given the honour to walk in Versace's show two years ago. He was half American half French but had spent the past five years travelling between Italy and Australia for work.

At the bottom of the email was a headshot, framed by a number of smaller photos from previous work. My eyes widened when they landed on the man's face.

As superficial as it was to say of a model, he was glaringly attractive. A brunette mane fell messily over pale blue eyes that descended into a razor sharp jawline. Smooth skin was caressed by a light stubble that highlighted the cut of a wicked smile. The faux scowl and accentuated brow could only be that of a lion on the prowl. This man needed no training.

Claire must've thought so too because the end of the email read: Just in off the French catwalk. Grimaldi, 1:00pm. Thursday. Wear something nice!

I scoffed. I'd only been home two minutes and my director was already trying to set me up on a date.

My decision to never fall in love again was not something I felt the need to hide in my private life. In interviews I fed the public what they wanted to hear - the story of the "young and attractive" Troye Evans taking himself out of the game at twenty-four was something no journalist wanted to hear - but the media was relentless.

I'd been stopped on the street, followed by news channel vans, had my cab hijacked by reporters and even had strangers break into my home on two separate occasions. I'd been ambushed in the supermarket by teens and blinded by camera flashes when picking up coffee in downtown cafes.

To the world, I was Troye Evans, son of eighties pop icon Nadia Evans and renowned music producer and businessman Scott Evans. I was the brother of record-breaking, chart-topping, wildly famous singer, Aria Evans. I even had a cousin in a famous rock band. I was the twenty-four year old model from California who'd gotten his big break at seventeen. I was the world's gimmick.

To me, I was just Troye. I was the Troye who'd spent his entire six-year old life convincing his parents he was going to be a super hero. The Troye who could barely make a piece of toast without burning it. The Troye who'd spend hours flipping through his mother's magazines at the kitchen table trying to find more photos to add to his endless collection. The Troye who'd begged his father every year to make pancakes on the first day of school because it was tradition. The Troye who endured watching horror films because his sister loved them and he loved his sister.

I was just a kid from the city, but that wasn't the version of me that sold.

The media had kept tabs on me my entire life, no matter how much my parents attempted to shield me from the limelight. My parents were both famous in their own right and Aria's own spotlight hadn't taken long to shine. The Evans name was known in all corners of the world. It hadn't taken long for people to realise I hadn't had a man on my arm in over a year.

Perhaps the most amazing thing about reporters is that they never consider you a person. They want to know all the facts - where you're going, who you'll be with, what time you'll arrive and what you'll be wearing - because that information sells. No one ever cares about what you think, what you know and what you believe right down to your bones.

Which is the reason why I'd never outwardly stated my decision to remain independent for the rest of my life to anyone except my family. Interviewers had made comments on my public love life sorely lacking but they didn't realise that it was by my own intent. Part of me knew the charade wouldn't last much longer.

I'd had a publicist since I was twelve years old; I was media-trained and knew how to deal with the pressure of the press when they hounded you for details about your personal life. This was one thing they hadn't figured out yet. Not because I was hiding or deflecting but when people make their own assumptions about you it leads to false identities.

Bowl in one hand and phone in the other, I read through Claire's email one more time. My eyes traced the model's jaw structure involuntarily. Gunfire sounded from the TV in the background.

"Kendall Rose," I said thoughtfully. "Okay, Claire."