I got on a flight back to the US, trying to hide behind my sunglasses, but the lady sitting next to me could tell I was crying. “Are you okay?” she asked. I shook my head. Over the course of the fourteen-hour flight, she was incredibly kind, and eventually I opened up and told her what was happening. The next day there was a picture of me on the cover of Us Weekly with the headline “Paris Hilton Exclusive: My Side of the Story,” or something like that. Mom was livid. “Why would you do an interview before you have a chance to process this?”
