The only people who knew were the medical team and the surrogate, who watched episodes of The Simple Life while pregnant so that the fetus would get used to the sound of his mother’s voice. Now, she and her husband, venture capitalist Carter Reum, have successfully pulled off one of the most impressive moves in the history of celebrity by keeping their baby’s entire existence a secret until a full week after he was born. Now, on this day in late February, she has a one-month-old baby boy, Phoenix Barron Hilton-Reum, who is not just named for a city, like his mother, but also for a mythical creature that rises from the ashes. Down a soaring hallway, there is a well-appointed family room of sorts, if family rooms typically boasted neon signs of the Chanel logo and studded Versace pillows and a smudge stick resting on an ashtray emblazoned with the words “You’re Fucking Awesome.” And in that very room, just moments ago, there was Hilton herself, nestled into a corner of the creamy couch, cozy in a hot-pink tracksuit and rainbow socks, and talking about her newish husband and her new baby and her even newer book, Paris: The Memoir, which, she later tells me, she wrote because she “suppressed so much” and found that “opening up was just so healing.” And because she knows what you might think when you hear the words “Paris Hilton,” and, truth be told, she was “so over that narrative.” ![]() There is an entrance as imposing as the Vatican’s, save for a neon-rainbow welcome mat and a grand, columned foyer in which stands a life-size, stuffed alpaca (a gift from the Kardashians, as it turns out). There are potted plants and cherubic statues. There are palm trees of biblical proportions and a multitiered fountain. It is, admittedly, not a bad place to be stuck, I think to myself as I wander the grounds looking for an alternate means of egress. And here I am, shaking the curlicues of an elaborate wrought-iron gate that had been wide open earlier and wondering how the hell to get out of this gilded paradise. A hush has fallen over Hilton’s stately driveway (where her pink Bentley sits with a flat tire) and over her Italianate mansion (where a neon-pink glow emanates from one entire wing). ![]() Even the helicopters overhead have stopped their mosquito whine. The landscapers have packed up and left in a white truck laden with an alarming amount of foliage. The stylists have packed up and left with countless lumpy bags and a large box they’d struggled to fit in their car. The photographer and crew have packed up and left with their sundry equipment. The cerulean sky over Beverly Hills is silvering its way toward nightfall when I find myself trapped at Paris Hilton’s.
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