You are being provided with a book chapter by chapter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chapter. After reading the chapter, 1. shorten the chapter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any important nouns in the chapter. 3. Do not translate the original language. 4. Keep the same style as the original chapter, keep it consistent throughout the chapter. Your reply must comply with all four requirements, or it’s invalid.
I will provide the chapter now.

16
Justin ended up sleeping with six or seven girls in the weeks after we ocially
broke up—or so I heard. Hey, I get it, he was Justin Timberlake. This was his
rst time to go solo. He was a girl’s dream. I was in love with him. I understood
the infatuation people had with him.
I decided if Justin was going to date, I should try to get out there, too. I
hadn’t dated in a while, since I’d been heartbroken and on tour. That winter I
saw a guy who I thought was handsome, and a club promoter friend said I had
good taste.
“That guy is so cool!” my friend said. “His name is Colin Farrell, and he’s
shooting a movie right now.”
Well, talk about balls—I got in my car and I drove up to the set of his action
movie, S.W.A.T. Who did I think I was?
There was no security or anything, so I went straight onto the soundstage,
where they were doing a set piece in a house. When the director saw me, he said,
“Come sit in my chair!”
“Okay,” I said. So I sat in the chair and watched them shoot. Colin came over
and said, “Do you have any pointers for what I should do here?” He was inviting
me to direct him.
We wound up having a two-week brawl. Brawl is the only word for it—we
were all over each other, grappling so passionately it was like we were in a street
ght.
In the course of our fun time together, he took me to the premiere of a spy
thriller he was in called The Recruit, with Al Pacino. I was so attered he asked
me to go. I wore a pajama top. I thought it was a real shirt because it had
miniature studs on it, but I see the photos and I think: Yeah, I definitely wore a
full-blown pajama top to Colin Farrell’s premiere.
I was so excited to be at the premiere. Colin’s whole family was there, and
they were so warm to me.
As I had before when I’d felt too attached to a man, I tried to convince myself
in every way that it was not a big deal, that we were just having fun, that in this
case I was vulnerable because I wasn’t over Justin yet. But for a brief moment in
time I did think there could be something there.
The disappointments in my romantic life were just one part of how isolated I
became. I felt so awkward all the time.
I did try to be social. Natalie Portman—who I’d known since we were little
girls in the New York theater circuit—and I even hosted a New Year’s Eve party
together.
But it took a huge amount of eort. Most days, I couldn’t even bring myself
to call a friend on the phone. The thought of going out and being brave onstage
or at clubs, even at parties or dinners, lled me with fear. Joy around groups of
other people was rare. Most of the time, I had serious social anxiety.
The way social anxiety works is that what feels like a totally normal
conversation to most people, to you feels mortifying. Being around people at all,
especially at a party or some other situation with expectations of presenting well,
for no apparent reason causes surges of embarrassment. I was afraid of being
judged or of saying something stupid. When that feeling hits, I want to be alone.
I get scared and just want to excuse myself to the bathroom and then sneak out.
I veered between being very social and being incredibly isolated. I kept
hearing that I seemed so condent. It was hard for anyone to imagine that
someone who could perform for thousands at a time could, backstage with just
one or two people, be gripped by panic.
Anxiety is strange that way. And mine grew as it became clear to me that
whatever I did—and even plenty I didn’t do—became front-page news. These
stories were often illustrated by unattering photos of me taken when I least
expected it. I was already designed to care what others thought about me; the
national spotlight turned my natural tendency to worry into something
unbearable.
While the news about me was often not all that friendly, the entertainment
press was full of positive stories about Justin and Christina Aguilera. Justin was
on the cover of Rolling Stone half-naked. Christina was on the cover of Blender,
dressed like a madam from the Old West. They were together on the cover of
Rolling Stone, him in a black tank top, looking at her with sexy eyes, her looking
out at the camera, wearing a lace-up black shirt. In that story, she said she
thought Justin and I should get back together, which was just confusing, given
how negative she’d been elsewhere.
Seeing people I’d known so intimately talk about me that way in the press
stung. Even if they weren’t trying to be cruel, it felt like they were just pouring
salt in the wound. Why was it so easy for everyone to forget that I was a human
being—vulnerable enough that these headlines could leave a bruise?
Wanting to disappear, I found myself living in New York City alone for
months, in a four-story NoHo apartment that Cher used to live in. It had tall
ceilings, a terrace with a view of the Empire State Building, and a working
replace much fancier than the one that had been in the living room of our
house in Kentwood. It would have been a dream apartment to use as a home
base to explore the city, but I hardly ever left the place. One of the only times I
did, a man behind me on an elevator said something that made me laugh; I
turned around and it was Robin Williams.
At one point, I realized I had somehow lost the key to the apartment. I was
arguably the biggest star on earth, and I didn’t even have a key to my own
apartment. What a fucking idiot. I was stuck, both emotionally and physically;
without a key, I couldn’t go anywhere. I also wasn’t willing to communicate
with anyone. I had nothing to say. (But trust that I always have the key to my
house these days.)
I didn’t go to the gym. I didn’t go out to eat. I only talked with my security
guard and Felicia, who—now that I no longer needed a chaperone—had become
my assistant and was still my friend. I fell o the face of the earth. I ate takeout
for every meal. And this will probably sound strange, but I was content staying
home. I liked it there. I felt safe.
On rare occasions, I went out. One night I put on a $129 Bebe dress and high
heels, and my cousin took me to a sexy underground club with low ceilings and
red walls. I took a couple hits from a joint, my rst time smoking pot. Later, I
walked all the way home so I could take in the city, breaking one of my heels
along the way. When I got to my apartment, I went to my terrace and just looked
up at the stars for hours. At that moment, I felt one with New York.
One of my few visitors during that strange, surreal time was Madonna. She
walked into the place and immediately, of course, she owned the room. I
remember thinking, It’s Madonna’s room now. Stunningly beautiful, she exuded
power and condence. She walked straight to the window, looked out, and said,
“Nice view.”
“Yeah, it’s a nice view, I guess,” I said.
Madonna’s supreme condence helped me see a lot about my situation with
fresh eyes. I think she probably had some intuitive sense of what I was going
through. I needed a little guidance at that time. I was confused about my life.
She tried to mentor me.
At one point, she did a red-string ceremony with me to initiate me into
Kabbalah, and she gave me a trunk full of Zohar books to pray with. At the base
of my neck, I tattooed a word in Hebrew that means one of the seventy-two
names of God. Some Kabbalists think of it as meaning healing, which was the
thing I was still trying to do.
In many ways, Madonna did have a good eect on me. She told me I should
be sure to take time out for my soul, and I tried to do that. She modeled a type of
strength that I needed to see. There were so many dierent ways to be a woman
in the industry: you could get a reputation for being a diva, you could be
professional, or you could be “nice.” I had always tried so hard to please—to
please my parents, to please audiences, to please everyone.
I must have learned that helplessness from my mom. I saw the way my sister
and my dad treated her and how she just took it. Early in my career, I followed
that model and became passive. I wish I’d had more of a mentor then to be a
badass bitch for me so I could’ve learned how to do that sooner. If I could go
back now, I would try to become my own parent, my own partner, my own
advocate—the way I knew Madonna did. She had endured so much sexism and
bullying from the public and the industry, and had been shamed for her
sexuality so many times, but she always overcame it.
When Madonna accepted her Billboard Woman of the Year award a few years
ago, she said she’d been subjected to “blatant misogyny, sexism, constant
bullying, and relentless abuse… If you’re a girl, you have to play the game. What
is that game? You’re allowed to be pretty, and cute, and sexy. But don’t act too
smart. Don’t have an opinion.”
She’s right that the music industry—really the whole world—is set up more
for men. Especially if you’re “nice,” like me, you can be completely destroyed. By
that point, I’d become almost too nice. Everywhere I went, Felicia would write
thank-you notes to the chef, the bartender, the secretary. To this day, as a
Southern girl, I believe in a handwritten thank-you note.
Madonna saw how much I wanted to please and how I wanted to do what
others did instead of locking something down and saying, “Okay, everyone!
Listen up! This is what’s going to happen.”
We decided to perform together at the VMAs.
Every time we rehearsed it, we did an air kiss. About two minutes before the
performance, I was sitting on the side of the stage and thinking about my biggest
performance to date at the VMAs, when I’d pulled o a suit to reveal a sparkly
outt. I thought to myself: I want a moment like that again this year. With the
kiss, should I just go for it?
A lot was made of that kiss. Oprah asked Madonna about it. The kiss was
treated as a huge cultural moment—“Britney kissing Madonna!”—and it got us
both a lot of attention.
While we were rehearsing for the VMAs, I’d also had an idea for a collaboration.
In the Culver City studio, my team and I were sitting on silver metal folding
chairs, talking about how the record company was lukewarm on my new song
“Me Against the Music”—a song I loved. I’d just done “I’m a Slave 4 U” on my
last record, and Barry Weiss, who ran my label, wanted more songs like that. But
I was pushing for “Me Against the Music”—hard.

You are being provided with a book chapter by chapter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chapter. After reading the chapter, 1. shorten the chapter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any important nouns in the chapter. 3. Do not translate the original language. 4. Keep the same style as the original chapter, keep it consistent throughout the chapter. Your reply must comply with all four requirements, or it’s invalid.
I will provide the chapter now.

16
I’m engaged.
Motherfucking engaged.
I can’t stop looking at the ring, the way it sparkles in the sunlight, the heavy, cool weight of it on
my finger.
But weirdly, it’s more than just the ring, gorgeous as it is.
It’s knowing that Eddie bought it before I even knew I wanted him to propose.
He wanted this. He chose me.
No one has ever chosen me before. I’ve spent my life being passed around and looked over, and
now this.
I’ve passed it dozens of times before, the village bridal shop that’s a world away from the big
dress emporiums in strip malls and shopping centers. I’ve looked in its plate glass window at the
delicate bits of lace and silk on display, and even though I’ve never been a girly-girl, I’d always felt a
little … wistful, maybe.
And even now, as I open the door, the little bell overhead jingling, something flutters in my chest.
There’s no overhead lighting, only strategically placed lamps, huge windows, and a skylight. And
the dresses aren’t just hanging up on crowded racks, row after row of heavy skirts and beaded
bodices, all so jumbled up you can barely tell what’s what.
Instead, some dresses are displayed on old-fashioned wire dress dummies, and others are draped
over bits of antique furniture, like the bride just slipped out of her dress and tossed it casually over
the nearest armoire.
It’s the kind of place where they’re not scared of anyone getting something on the dresses or
messing them up somehow—no one who shops here would be that gauche. So there’s no need for the
miles of plastic that protect dresses from all the grubby hands at those cheaper bridal places.
The woman who approaches me has soft blond hair arranged in an elegant chignon, and she’s
wearing an outfit that reminds me of the things I’ve seen Bea wear in pictures. It’s elegant but
feminine at the same time, a sleek black sheath dress and pearls paired with houndstooth pumps that
have a tiny hot pink bow on the back.
Her name is Huntley, because of course it is.
I see the way she clocks my ring, and while I’m sure Huntley here would never be so crass as to
actually start adding up numbers in her head, her smile definitely warms a little.
I know plenty of girls dream about their wedding day, but I never had, not really. Maybe it had
just seemed like something so far out of the realm of possibility for me, or maybe I just had bigger
things to worry about.
Turns out, I fucking love this shit.
We move around the store, talking about shades of white and ivory, the difference between
eggshell and cream, whether I’d like my hair up or down, what kind of veil options that might entail.
When Huntley brings out a book full of fabric samples for me to look at, I almost swoon.
By the time I leave the shop, my head is swimming, but I’m pleasantly high, and not just on the
two glasses of champagne I sipped while Huntley and I talked.
I’m marrying Eddie Rochester.
I’m going to be his wife, and live in that gorgeous house, and afternoons like this, afternoons not
spent walking dogs or waiting tables or driving for Uber or making someone else coffee, aren’t just a
temporary reprieve—they’re my future.
“Jane?”
Emily is standing there, paper cup of coffee in hand, her face hidden behind those huge
sunglasses.
She glances up toward the striped awning of Irene’s, and her mouth drops open. “Girl. Tell me
you were in there for a reason.”
My smile is not even a little bit faked. “Turns out he did put a ring on it.”
She squeals at that, rushing forward to throw her arms around me, pulling me into a hug that
smells like Santal 33.
I smell like it, too, since I stole a bottle from her bathroom just two months ago.
“Let me see, let me see,” she says when we pull apart, flapping her hands toward mine.
Another rush of what feels suspiciously like joy, but is probably just the adrenaline rush of
winning.
I haven’t perfected this move yet, the ring display, and I fight the urge to mimic girls I’ve seen on
TV, all arched wrist like I’m waiting for her not just to ogle the ring, but to kiss it.
As a result, I feel like I just sort of hold my hand out for inspection, awkward and suddenly very
aware of how ridiculous that sparkly emerald looks on my stumpy fingers with their raggedy
manicure.
But Emily just sighs. “It’s gorgeous. And so you!”
I raise my hand again, studying the ring myself. “I still can’t get used to it,” I say. “I mean, all of it
has been kind of a whirlwind, but the ring makes it feel real, you know?”
I give her a smile.
“I remember feeling like that,” she offers. “The ring definitely cements it.”
Raising her eyebrows, she asks, “Did you pick that one out?”
I shake my head, looking back at the emerald surrounded by its halo of diamonds. “No, Eddie did.
It’s bigger than anything I would’ve chosen, but I love emeralds, so I can’t complain.”
She nods. “He has the best taste in jewelry. I always thought—”
Her words break off, and she presses her lips together, and I know there’s a comment about Bea
there, caught in her throat. I don’t want Bea’s memory to ruin this moment, so I rush in.
“I was just in there peeking around, we’re not sure when the wedding is going to be yet,” I say
lightly, and her shoulders loosen a little.
“Are y’all doing something big?” she asks. “Lots of family?”
Until that moment, it hadn’t really hit me what a wedding with Eddie would look like. I’d been so
caught up in the idea of marrying him, of being Mrs. Rochester, that I’d basically skipped the wedding
part of things.
But now it’s all I can see, a giant church, Eddie’s side of the church full, his family from Maine all
turning up, mine completely empty except for John Rivers sitting there, eating a bowl of cereal.
The image is so grotesque and awful that I literally shake my head to will it away, which
apparently looks like an answer to Emily.
“Small, then!” she says, smiling. “I love it. Classy, elegant. Appropriate.”
Eyes on my hand again, and this time, I do rearrange my bags so that they’re covering the ring, and
I give her my best bland smile, the one I actually learned from her and Campbell and Caroline
McLaren. “Exactly,” I say, all sugar, then I gesture back up the road. “Anyway, I have more errands to
run, so—”
“Oh, sure,” Emily says, waving a hand. Her own engagement ring is a princess-cut diamond, at
least three carats, and it sparkles in the sunlight. “And my lips are sealed!”
“They don’t have to be,” I reply with a little shrug. “It’s not a secret.”
The truth is, I want her to spread this news like wildfire, I want everyone in Thornfield Estates to
be talking about it by dinner.
We make vague plans to get coffee one of these days, and then go our separate ways, Emily
already texting on her phone. By the next Neighborhood Beautification Committee meeting, everyone
will know, and I’ll be the center of attention.
On the way home, I decide to stop at the Whole Foods and pick up some groceries. I haven’t
cooked a single meal for Eddie since we’ve met, and that might be nice. It’s a pretty late spring day,
and we could go full suburban basics and grill out.
The idea makes me smile as I turn into the parking lot.
The store is soothing, all wide aisles and calming Muzak, a world away from the Piggly Wiggly
where I used to shop.
I push the cart down the aisle, wondering if Eddie would notice if I picked up some junk food. I
love the fancy shit as much as the next girl, but truth be told, I’m getting a little sick of it. The other
day, I found myself longing for macaroni and cheese—not the Annie’s Organics kind, not even the
frozen kind that’s halfway decent, but the blue cardboard box kind that costs a dollar.
Snorting, I turn down another aisle. Who am I kidding? This is a nice grocery store, not the Pig.
So instead, I stare at the fifty varieties of hummus and olive tapenades, wondering if I should also
make a gas station run on my way home. Maybe they’d have macaroni and cheese there?
“Fancy meeting you here.”
I recognize the voice without turning around.
Tripp Ingraham stands behind me in a polo shirt and khaki shorts, a basket slung over his forearm.
A quick peek inside reveals cans of craft beer and a bunch of frozen but ostensibly healthy meals.
Tripp looks a little better than he did the last time I saw him. He’s still bloated, the pink polo
stretching over a disturbingly round and smooth belly, but his face isn’t as puffy, and his eyes aren’t
red. He’s even brushed his hair.
Maybe he’s managed to make it all the way to noon without a drink.
Smiling tightly, I give a little wave. “Hi, Mr. Ing—Tripp.”
One corner of his mouth lifts, half attempted smile, half smirk. “That’s right, you don’t work for
me anymore,” he says, then adds, “and I hear congratulations are in order.”
Jesus, Emily worked even faster than I thought.
“Thank you,” I say. “We’re very happy. Anyway, it was nice to see you—”
I move to scoot past him, but he’s still standing there in the middle of the aisle, and even though it
would be deeply satisfying to clip Tripp Ingraham with my cart, I stop, raising my eyebrows at him.
“So, when exactly did all this happen?” he asks, waving his free hand. “You and Eddie? Because
I gotta say, I never saw that one coming.”
“Neither did we,” I say, still smiling, remembering that I need to be the girl Tripp thinks I am, the
innocent barely-out-of-college dog-walker who made good. I wonder when I’ll feel like I can drop
that act, when it will feel normal to just … be me.
“You know, I never got the whole Eddie ‘thing.’”
He actually raises his hands to make air quotes, the basket dangling heavily from the crook of his
elbow.
I don’t bother asking him what he means because for one, he clearly wants me to ask him that, and
for another, I just want to leave, but a little thing like lack of interest has clearly never stopped Tripp
Ingraham where a woman is concerned.
“I mean, he’s good-looking, I guess, and he’s charming in that used-car-salesman way, but Jesus,
from the way the women in this neighborhood acted, you would’ve thought the dude had a twelve-inch
cock.”
Okay, maybe I misjudged how not-drunk Tripp actually is.
But this is good—now he’s given me every reason to push my cart past him, head held high, like
I’m mortally offended and embarrassed instead of just kind of irritated.
He steps aside right before my cart actually hits him, and as I reach the end of the aisle, he calls
after me, “Just hope you don’t like boats.”
When I glance back at him, his expression is curdled and nasty. “Women have bad luck around
Eddie Rochester and boats,” he adds, before turning and trudging away.
I get all the way back to the produce before I abandon my semi-full cart and head for the doors.
The drive home isn’t long enough for me to shake the unease, the sudden fear that Tripp Ingraham
—fucking Tripp Ingraham, of all people—has instilled in me, and again, I see Bea pale and greenish
under the water. My stomach lurches as I pull into the driveway.
“Stop it, stop it, stop it,” I mutter, my hands over my face. Eddie’s wife drowned in an accident
with her best friend. Eddie wasn’t even there, and the women were drunk and possibly had some
unresolved drama. Shit happens.
I try to think about the bridal store again, the way Huntley smiled at me and treated me like I had
just joined an exclusive club, how good that had felt. Emily’s hug and bright smile as she’d looked at
the ring.
That’s what matters now.
When I walk in the house, Eddie is already home, changed into shorts and another one of his
button-down shirts. Now that I’ve seen inside his closet, I know he has dozens of them in a variety of
colors. Men can do that—find one thing that looks good, then wear it for the rest of their lives, pretty
much.
“There’s my girl,” he says brightly as I walk in. I smile as I greet him, but it’s clear I’m upset
because he immediately frowns.
“Everything okay?”

Chapter 16 of “The Beasts of Tarzan” plunges into a thrilling encounter where Tarzan battles for survival against a formidable crocodile. Trapped in the creature’s jaws, he does not surrender but fights with all his might, demonstrating his indomitable spirit and strength. Despite his dire situation beneath the water, Tarzan’s persistence pays off when his knife finds a weak spot in the crocodile’s armor, killing the beast. Freed, but trapped in the dark confines of the crocodile’s den beneath the riverbank, Tarzan’s thoughts quickly turn to escape.

He ingeniously navigates a submerged tunnel, despite being wounded, driven by the hope of rejoining the search for his family. The narrative shifts, detailing Tarzan’s arduous journey towards the coast, hindered by his injury and the dense jungle. His thoughts are consumed by vengeance against Rokoff for the abduction and presumed harm to his family. Tarzan’s resilience is highlighted as he navigates both physical and emotional turmoil, spurred by misinformation about his family’s fate.

The chapter also sheds light on the parallel plight of Jane Clayton, Tarzan’s wife, and her cunning efforts to evade Rokoff’s clutches aboard the Kincaid. Jane’s bravery and quick thinking are showcased as she manages to set the ship adrift, aiming to escape her pursuer by merging with the sea’s expanse. However, the Kincaid runs aground, temporarily halting her plans for freedom.

As both Tarzan and Jane battle their respective adversaries, the narrative crescendos with the convergence of their struggles. Tarzan, drawn by a scream and the sound of gunfire, leaps into action despite his injuries, embodying the primal and protective aspects of his character. Jane, on her end, faces betrayal from the sailors she had coerced into obedience, underscoring the theme of treachery that runs through their ordeals.

This chapter masterfully intertwines the fierce will to survive and protect loved ones with the betrayal and deceit encountered along the way. Tarzan’s primal connection to the jungle and its creatures, juxtaposed with his human emotions and vulnerabilities, enriches the narrative complexity. Meanwhile, Jane’s resourcefulness and courage highlight her own determination to overcome the obstacles posed by Rokoff and the treacherous elements of her environment.