Sarah Paulson finds buyer for $2 million Malibu trailer home after slashing price and throwing in a free gift
Sarah Paulson finally locked in a buyer for her Malibu trailer home after reducing the property price by $550,000.
The American Horror Story star originally listed her one-bedroom, one-bathroom luxury home in May of last year for $2 million, but was forced to lower her asking price when she couldn't secure a buyer for months.
Paulson bought the property for only $860,000 in March of 2024.
The trailer house is located in the private Paradise Cove mobile home park, a community that's hosted many celebrities over the years, from Stevie Nicks to Matthew McConaughey.
Based on other listings on Realtor.com, the average asking price for homes in Paradise Cove is more than $1.2 million. The most expensive property, a two-bedroom, is listed for $4.99 million.
Paulson briefly took the 500-square-foot home off the market in February due to the damage caused by the Los Angeles wildfires in the surrounding area. Paradise Cove was not ruined in the Palisades Fire.
Paulson eventually put her listing back up in March with an asking price of $1.57 million.
It wasn't until April 16 that the home finally sold for $1.45 million, according to Realtor.com. The actor threw in a free golf cart with the sale.
'This custom-designed jewel box of a property is more than just a home: It's a piece of art, lovingly crafted with unparalleled style and attention to detail,' the original listing description said of the home. 'Step through the front door and find a serene living space flooded with natural light.
'The kitchen is beautifully anchored by milky-stone countertops shot through with emerald veining that evokes the crashing waves just moments away. The wide-plank engineered pine floors and brass fixtures suggest an understated nautical inspiration - intimate and welcoming.
'The elegant bathroom, featuring floor-to-ceiling blush-pink Zellige tiles, is a serene sanctuary-within-a-sanctuary.'
In 2023, Paulson gave Architectural Digest an in-depth look at her beachside home, during which she thought back to when she decided to purchase the property.
'It was January, and the tide was so far out that the beach felt like a moonscape,' she told the outlet. 'The cliffs and the water and the light were so beautiful, and my dog went bananas.
'The ocean never called to me. I'm the person who's afraid there's a shark in my bathtub,' she continued. 'But the beach was stunning. How did I live here for so many years and not understand the beauty of the coastline?'
To help with renovations, Paulson tapped Kehoe and Jeff Spiegel at Heartwood Construction + Design.
Pictures from her AD tour show the home's sun-soaked interior and an enclosed gravel patio located in the back.
The exterior of the home is coated with plum-colored paint, while countertops are made from stone and white wood paneling is consistent throughout the inside.
'There's no disconnect between Sarah's personal style and her home style,' Kehoe told AD. 'She is really dialed in and has excellent taste in all things, and there is a current femininity to her style that's so modern and thoughtful.'
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Yahoo
a day ago
- Yahoo
Money Is Ruining Television
The Atlantic Daily, a newsletter that guides you through the biggest stories of the day, helps you discover new ideas, and recommends the best in culture. Sign up for it here. Watching Carrie Bradshaw—erstwhile sex columnist, intrepid singleton, striver—float down the majestic staircase of her new Gramercy townhouse on a recent episode of And Just Like That while wearing a transparent tulle gown, on an errand to mail a letter, is one of the most cognitively dissonant television experiences I've had recently. And Just Like That has never been a particularly imaginative show with regard to women in midlife, but there's still something fundamentally off about seeing one of the canonical female characters of our era transformed into a Gilded Age archetype, worrying about a garden renovation and choosing back-ordered fabric for a chaise. Carrie, suddenly, has many hats. She communicates with a lover via handwritten notes while she waits for his liberation from the home front in Virginia. What's happened to Carrie, truly, is money. Two decades after Sex and the City rolled to a televised close, acknowledging that its own cultural relevance was waning, its characters continue in zombified form on And Just Like That, pickled in a state of extreme privilege where nothing can touch them. The drama is lifeless, involving rehashed old storylines about beeping alarm systems and 'a woman's right to shoes' that serve mostly as a backdrop for clothes. Charlotte, in a questionable lace workout jacket, worries that her dog has been unfairly canceled. Miranda, in one of a series of patterned blouses, gets really into a Love Island–style reality show. (Remember Jules and Mimi?) Lisa wears feathers to a fundraiser for her husband's political campaign. Seema, in lingerie, nearly burns her apartment down when she falls asleep with a lit cigarette, but in the end, all she loses is an inch or so of hair. The point of the show is no longer what happens, because nothing does. The point is to set up a series of visual tableaus showcasing all the things money can buy, as though the show were an animated special issue of Vogue or Architectural Digest. What's stranger still is that a series that once celebrated women in the workplace has succumbed to financial ideals right out of Edith Wharton: The women who earned their money themselves (Miranda and Seema) somehow don't have enough of it (spoiler—they still seem to have a lot), while the ones who married money (Carrie, Charlotte, Lisa) breeze through life as an array of lunches, fundraisers, and glamping trips, with some creative work dotted into the mix for variety. The banal details of exorbitant wealth—well, it's all quite boring. [Read: We need to talk about Miranda] Lately, most of television seems stuck in the same mode. Virtually everything I've watched recently has been some variation of rich people pottering around in 'aspirational' compounds. On Sirens and The Better Sister, glossy scenes of sleek couture and property porn upstage the intrigue of the plot. On Mountainhead, tech billionaires tussle in a Utah mountain retreat featuring 21,000 square feet of customized bowling alleys and basketball courts. On Your Friends & Neighbors, a disgraced hedge-fund manager sneers at the vacuous wealth of his gated community (where houses cost seven to eight figures), but also goes to criminal lengths to maintain his own living standards rather than lower them by even a smidge. And on With Love, Meghan, the humble cooking show has gotten a Montecito-money glow-up. 'I miss TV without rich people,' the writer Emily J. Smith noted last month on Substack, observing that even supposedly normie shows such as Tina Fey's marital comedy The Four Seasons and Erin Foster's unconventional rom-com Nobody Wants This seem to be playing out in worlds where money is just not an issue for anyone. This is a new development: As Smith points out, sitcoms including Roseanne and Married … With Children have historically featured families with recognizable financial constraints, and the more recent dramedies of the 2010s were riddled with economic anxiety. Reality television, it's worth noting, has been fixated on the lifestyles of the rich and bored virtually since its inception, but as its biggest stars have grown their own fortunes exponentially, the genre has mostly stopped documenting anything other than wealth, which it fetishizes via the gaudy enclaves and private jets of Selling Sunset and Bling Empire. Serialized shows, too, no longer seem interested in considering the stakes and subtleties of most people's lives. Television is preoccupied with literary adaptations about troubled rich white women, barbed satires about absurdly wealthy people on vacation, thrillers about billionaire enclaves at the end of the world. Even our contemporary workplace series (Severance, Shrinking) play out in fictional realms where people work not for the humble paychecks that sustain their lives, but to escape the grief that might otherwise consume them. What does it mean that our predominant fictional landscapes are all so undeniably 'elevated,' to use a word cribbed from the Duchess of Sussex? And Just Like That is evidence of how hard it is for shows that take wealth for granted to have narrative stakes, and how stultifying they become as a result. But we also lose something vital when we no longer see 99 percent of American lives reflected on the small screen. Money isn't just making TV boring. It's also reshaping our collective psyche—building a shared sense of wealth as the only marker of a significant life, and rich people as the only people worthy of our gaze. We're not supposed to be able to empathize with the characters on-screen, these strutting zoo animals in $1,200 shoes and $30,000-a-night villas. But we're not being encouraged to empathize with any other kinds of characters, either—to see the full humanity and complexity of so many average people whose lives feel ever more precarious in this moment, and ever more in need of our awareness. On an episode in the final season of Sex and the City, a socialite named Lexi Featherston cracks a floor-to-ceiling window, lights a cigarette, and declares that New York is over, O-V-E-R. 'When did everybody stop smoking?' she sneers. 'When did everybody pair off?' As the hostess glares at her, she continues: 'No one's fun anymore. Whatever happened to fun? God, I'm so bored I could die.' Famous last words: Lexi, of course, promptly trips on her stiletto, falls out the absurdly dangerous glass panel, and plummets to her death. Her arc—from exalted '80s It Girl to coked-up aging party girl—was supposed to represent finality, the termination of the city's relevance as a cultural nexus. 'It's the end of an era,' Carrie says at Lexi's funeral, where Stanford is elated to have scored VIP seats next to Hugh Jackman. 'The party's officially over,' Samantha agrees. After six seasons of transforming how a generation of women dated, dressed, even drank, Sex and the City seemed to be acknowledging that its own moment had come to an end. The characters were undeniably older, no longer seeking anthropological meaning in a SoHo nightclub at 3 a.m. But the city that the show documented—and popular culture more broadly—had shifted, too: toward less spontaneity, less rebellion, and infinitely higher incomes. [Read: The ghost of a once era-defining show] The year that final season aired, 2004, is possibly when television's prurient obsession with rich people really kicked off, with the launch of shows including Desperate Housewives, Entourage, and, notably, The Apprentice. A year earlier, Fox had premiered a soapy drama called The O.C., which charted the rags–to–Range Rover adventures of a teen from Chino who ended up ensconced in the affluent coastal town of Newport Beach. Until then, it had never occurred to me that teenagers could wear Chanel or drive SUVs that cost six figures, although watching them rattle around in McMansions the size of the Met provided much of The O.C.'s visual thrill. In direct response to the show's success, MTV debuted the reality show Laguna Beach: The Real Orange County a year later, and in 2006, Bravo countered with its own voyeuristic peek into the lives of the rich and fabulous—The Real Housewives of Orange County. Documenting wealth enticingly on television is a difficult balancing act: You want to stoke enough envy that people are inspired to buy things (gratifying advertisers along the way), but not so much that you risk alienating the viewer. Reality TV pulled it off by starting small. The women on the first season of Real Housewives were well off, but not unimaginably so. They lived in high-end family homes, not sprawling temples of megawealth. Similarly, when Keeping Up With the Kardashians debuted in 2007, the family lived in a generous but chintzy bungalow, having not yet generated the billions of dollars that would later pay for their minimalist compounds in Calabasas and Hidden Hills. During the 2008 financial crisis, a critic for The New York Times wondered whether the tanking global economy might doom the prospects of shows such as The Real Housewives of Atlanta, which had just premiered, and turn them into 'a time capsule of the Bling Decade.' But the fragility of viewers' own finances, oddly, seemed to make them more eager to watch. Shows about money gratified both people's escapist impulses and the desire to critique those who didn't seem worthy of their blessings. As Jennifer O'Connell, a producer for The Real Housewives of New York City, put it to the Times a year later: 'Everyone likes to judge.' The toxic, unhappy, rich-people shows that have more recently proliferated on prestige TV—the Succession and White Lotus and Big Little Lies variation—cover their backs with cynicism. Money doesn't make you happy, they assert over and over, even though studies suggest otherwise. The documentation of extreme wealth on television with such clarifying bitterness, they imply, surely inoculates audiences from pernicious aspiration. Except it doesn't: The Four Seasons San Domenico Palace in Sicily was fully booked for a good six months following the second season of The White Lotus, despite the fictional bodies floating in the water. And a study conducted at the London School of Economics in 2018 found that a person's increased exposure to shows that regularly 'glamourize fame, luxury, and the accumulation of wealth' made them more inclined to support welfare cuts; it also noted other studies that found that the more people watched materialistic media, the more anxious and unhappy they were likely to be in their own lives. Watching shows about wealth does, however, seem to stimulate the desire to shop, which is maybe why this latest season of And Just Like That feels intended for an audience watching with a second screen in their hand—all the better to harvest the aspirational consumption the show's lifestyles might generate. Streaming services are already tapping into the reams of data they have on viewers by serving them customized ads related to the series they might be watching, and many are also experimenting with e-commerce. You could argue that And Just Like That is honoring the spirit of Sex and the City by putting fashion front and center. But the vacant dullness of the new season feels wholly of its time: This is television for the skin-deep influencer age, not the messy, pioneering drama it once was. More crucially, Carrie and company take up space that deprives us of more shows like The Pitt, one of a sparse handful of series documenting the workers trying to patch up the holes in an ever more unequal America. No one seems to have anticipated that the Max series would be such a success. As workers today are being squeezed 'for all their worth, no more chit-chatting at the water cooler, we've gotten to a point where reality for most people is quite unpleasant,' Smith writes on Substack. 'And executives are betting that we don't actually want to watch it.' The reality of the TV business also underscores why shows that sell us something—even if it's just the illusion of exceptional prosperity as a default—are easier to commission. But audiences will always be drawn to drama, and the stakes of defiantly deglamorized series such as The Bear and Slow Horses feel necessary in this moment, when the state of the future relies so much on the direction and quality of our attention. Article originally published at The Atlantic
Atlantic
a day ago
- Atlantic
Why Is Everyone on Television So Rich Now?
Watching Carrie Bradshaw—erstwhile sex columnist, intrepid singleton, striver—float down the majestic staircase of her new Gramercy townhouse on a recent episode of And Just Like That while wearing a transparent tulle gown, on an errand to mail a letter, is one of the most cognitively dissonant television experiences I've had recently. And Just Like That has never been a particularly imaginative show with regard to women in midlife, but there's still something fundamentally off about seeing one of the canonical female characters of our era transformed into a Gilded Age archetype, worrying about a garden renovation and choosing back-ordered fabric for a chaise. Carrie, suddenly, has many hats. She communicates with a lover via handwritten notes while she waits for his liberation from the home front in Virginia. What's happened to Carrie, truly, is money. Two decades after Sex and the City rolled to a televised close, acknowledging that its own cultural relevance was waning, its characters continue in zombified form on And Just Like That, pickled in a state of extreme privilege where nothing can touch them. The drama is lifeless, involving rehashed old storylines about beeping alarm systems and 'a woman's right to shoes' that serve mostly as a backdrop for clothes. Charlotte, in a questionable lace workout jacket, worries that her dog has been unfairly canceled. Miranda, in one of a series of patterned blouses, gets really into a Love Island –style reality show. (Remember Jules and Mimi?) Lisa wears feathers to a fundraiser for her husband's political campaign. Seema, in lingerie, nearly burns her apartment down when she falls asleep with a lit cigarette, but in the end, all she loses is an inch or so of hair. The point of the show is no longer what happens, because nothing does. The point is to set up a series of visual tableaus showcasing all the things money can buy, as though the show were an animated special issue of Vogue or Architectural Digest. What's stranger still is that a series that once celebrated women in the workplace has succumbed to financial ideals right out of Edith Wharton: The women who earned their money themselves (Miranda and Seema) somehow don't have enough of it (spoiler—they still seem to have a lot), while the ones who married money (Carrie, Charlotte, Lisa) breeze through life as an array of lunches, fundraisers, and glamping trips, with some creative work dotted into the mix for variety. The banal details of exorbitant wealth—well, it's all quite boring. Lately, most of television seems stuck in the same mode. Virtually everything I've watched recently has been some variation of rich people pottering around in 'aspirational' compounds. On Sirens and The Better Sister, glossy scenes of sleek couture and property porn upstage the intrigue of the plot. On Mountainhead, tech billionaires tussle in a Utah mountain retreat featuring 21,000 square feet of customized bowling alleys and basketball courts. On Your Friends & Neighbors, a disgraced hedge-fund manager sneers at the vacuous wealth of his gated community (where houses cost seven to eight figures), but also goes to criminal lengths to maintain his own living standards rather than lower them by even a smidge. And on With Love, Meghan, the humble cooking show has gotten a Montecito-money glow-up. 'I miss TV without rich people,' the writer Emily J. Smith noted last month on Substack, observing that even supposedly normie shows such as Tina Fey's marital comedy The Four Seasons and Erin Foster's unconventional rom-com Nobody Wants This seem to be playing out in worlds where money is just not an issue for anyone. This is a new development: As Smith points out, sitcoms including Roseanne and Married … With Children have historically featured families with recognizable financial constraints, and the more recent dramedies of the 2010s were riddled with economic anxiety. Reality television, it's worth noting, has been fixated on the lifestyles of the rich and bored virtually since its inception, but as its biggest stars have grown their own fortunes exponentially, the genre has mostly stopped documenting anything other than wealth, which it fetishizes via the gaudy enclaves and private jets of Selling Sunset and Bling Empire. Serialized shows, too, no longer seem interested in considering the stakes and subtleties of most people's lives. Television is preoccupied with literary adaptations about troubled rich white women, barbed satires about absurdly wealthy people on vacation, thrillers about billionaire enclaves at the end of the world. Even our contemporary workplace series (Severance, Shrinking) play out in fictional realms where people work not for the humble paychecks that sustain their lives, but to escape the grief that might otherwise consume them. What does it mean that our predominant fictional landscapes are all so undeniably 'elevated,' to use a word cribbed from the Duchess of Sussex? And Just Like That is evidence of how hard it is for shows that take wealth for granted to have narrative stakes, and how stultifying they become as a result. But we also lose something vital when we no longer see 99 percent of American lives reflected on the small screen. Money isn't just making TV boring. It's also reshaping our collective psyche—building a shared sense of wealth as the only marker of a significant life, and rich people as the only people worthy of our gaze. We're not supposed to be able to empathize with the characters on-screen, these strutting zoo animals in $1,200 shoes and $30,000-a-night villas. But we're not being encouraged to empathize with any other kinds of characters, either—to see the full humanity and complexity of so many average people whose lives feel ever more precarious in this moment, and ever more in need of our awareness. On an episode in the final season of Sex and the City, a socialite named Lexi Featherston cracks a floor-to-ceiling window, lights a cigarette, and declares that New York is over, O - V - E - R. 'When did everybody stop smoking?' she sneers. 'When did everybody pair off?' As the hostess glares at her, she continues: 'No one's fun anymore. Whatever happened to fun? God, I'm so bored I could die.' Famous last words: Lexi, of course, promptly trips on her stiletto, falls out the absurdly dangerous glass panel, and plummets to her death. Her arc—from exalted '80s It Girl to coked-up aging party girl—was supposed to represent finality, the termination of the city's relevance as a cultural nexus. 'It's the end of an era,' Carrie says at Lexi's funeral, where Stanford is elated to have scored VIP seats next to Hugh Jackman. 'The party's officially over,' Samantha agrees. After six seasons of transforming how a generation of women dated, dressed, even drank, Sex and the City seemed to be acknowledging that its own moment had come to an end. The characters were undeniably older, no longer seeking anthropological meaning in a SoHo nightclub at 3 a.m. But the city that the show documented—and popular culture more broadly—had shifted, too: toward less spontaneity, less rebellion, and infinitely higher incomes. The year that final season aired, 2004, is possibly when television's prurient obsession with rich people really kicked off, with the launch of shows including Desperate Housewives, Entourage, and, notably, The Apprentice. A year earlier, Fox had premiered a soapy drama called The O.C., which charted the rags–to–Range Rover adventures of a teen from Chino who ended up ensconced in the affluent coastal town of Newport Beach. Until then, it had never occurred to me that teenagers could wear Chanel or drive SUVs that cost six figures, although watching them rattle around in McMansions the size of the Met provided much of The O.C. 's visual thrill. In direct response to the show's success, MTV debuted the reality show Laguna Beach: The Real Orange County a year later, and in 2006, Bravo countered with its own voyeuristic peek into the lives of the rich and fabulous— The Real Housewives of Orange County. Documenting wealth enticingly on television is a difficult balancing act: You want to stoke enough envy that people are inspired to buy things (gratifying advertisers along the way), but not so much that you risk alienating the viewer. Reality TV pulled it off by starting small. The women on the first season of Real Housewives were well off, but not unimaginably so. They lived in high-end family homes, not sprawling temples of megawealth. Similarly, when Keeping Up With the Kardashians debuted in 2007, the family lived in a generous but chintzy bungalow, having not yet generated the billions of dollars that would later pay for their minimalist compounds in Calabasas and Hidden Hills. During the 2008 financial crisis, a critic for The New York Times wondered whether the tanking global economy might doom the prospects of shows such as The Real Housewives of Atlanta, which had just premiered, and turn them into 'a time capsule of the Bling Decade.' But the fragility of viewers' own finances, oddly, seemed to make them more eager to watch. Shows about money gratified both people's escapist impulses and the desire to critique those who didn't seem worthy of their blessings. As Jennifer O'Connell, a producer for The Real Housewives of New York City, put it to the Times a year later: 'Everyone likes to judge.' The toxic, unhappy, rich-people shows that have more recently proliferated on prestige TV—the Succession and White Lotus and Big Little Lies variation—cover their backs with cynicism. Money doesn't make you happy, they assert over and over, even though studies suggest otherwise. The documentation of extreme wealth on television with such clarifying bitterness, they imply, surely inoculates audiences from pernicious aspiration. Except it doesn't: The Four Seasons San Domenico Palace in Sicily was fully booked for a good six months following the second season of The White Lotus, despite the fictional bodies floating in the water. And a study conducted at the London School of Economics in 2018 found that a person's increased exposure to shows that regularly 'glamourize fame, luxury, and the accumulation of wealth' made them more inclined to support welfare cuts; it also noted other studies that found that the more people watched materialistic media, the more anxious and unhappy they were likely to be in their own lives. Watching shows about wealth does, however, seem to stimulate the desire to shop, which is maybe why this latest season of And Just Like That feels intended for an audience watching with a second screen in their hand—all the better to harvest the aspirational consumption the show's lifestyles might generate. Streaming services are already tapping into the reams of data they have on viewers by serving them customized ads related to the series they might be watching, and many are also experimenting with e-commerce. You could argue that And Just Like That is honoring the spirit of Sex and the City by putting fashion front and center. But the vacant dullness of the new season feels wholly of its time: This is television for the skin-deep influencer age, not the messy, pioneering drama it once was. More crucially, Carrie and company take up space that deprives us of more shows like The Pitt, one of a sparse handful of series documenting the workers trying to patch up the holes in an ever more unequal America. No one seems to have anticipated that the Max series would be such a success. As workers today are being squeezed 'for all their worth, no more chit-chatting at the water cooler, we've gotten to a point where reality for most people is quite unpleasant,' Smith writes on Substack. 'And executives are betting that we don't actually want to watch it.' The reality of the TV business also underscores why shows that sell us something—even if it's just the illusion of exceptional prosperity as a default—are easier to commission. But audiences will always be drawn to drama, and the stakes of defiantly deglamorized series such as The Bear and Slow Horses feel necessary in this moment, when the state of the future relies so much on the direction and quality of our attention.
Yahoo
2 days ago
- Yahoo
Yolanda Hadid ends engagement to Joseph Jingoli after ex-husband's secret daughter is revealed
It's over for Yolanda Hadid and Joseph Jingoli. The former 'Real Housewives of Beverly Hills' star, 61, and her longtime boyfriend quietly ended their engagement in January, a source told People on Thursday, June 5. However, the exes allegedly have no bad blood toward each other. 'They remain friends and have nothing but fond memories of their time together,' the insider said. The Post reached out to Hadid for comment but did not immediately hear back. The reality star alum, who is mother to supermodels Gigi and Bella Hadid, met Jingoli after she uprooted her life to Pennsylvania in 2017. Jingoli, who is the CEO of a construction and development company, popped the question in 2022 while the pair were away in Holland. They kept their engagement private until August 2024, when Hadid casually called him her 'fiancé' in her interview with Architectural Digest. 'I made a love spiral and wrote down exactly everything that was important to me in a man and he magically just rang the doorbell at the farm,' she told People in 2018. The pair first stepped out together in September 2019. Hadid also gushed over Jingoli in a tribute post for their anniversary in January 2021. ' All my life I prayed for someone like you!!' Hadid wrote alongside photos of them together. 'Thank you for being such a bright light in my life, the calm in my storm and for being the most honorable man that I know…. Happy 2 year anniversary Joey Jingoli, I love and appreciate you .' Hadid was previously married to Grammy-award-winning producer David Foster from 2011 to 2017. Her first husband was luxury real estate developer Mohamed Hadid, 76, with whom she shares three children: Gigi, 30, Bella, 28, and son Anwar, 25. While Hadid only has three children, Mohamed has six — one of whom the world just discovered. Gigi and Bella have a half sister named Aydan Nix, and revealed the shocking family secret just last week. Nix is 23 and the result of their father's 'brief romance' with a woman named Terri Hatfield Dull, which happened shortly after his 2001 divorce from Yolanda, according to the sisters. 'Over 20 years ago, our dad, while single, had a brief relationship that led to a pregnancy,' Gigi and Bella told the Daily Mail in a statement on May 29. Gigi and Bella explained that Nix was unaware that Mohamed was her father until recently. She discovered the news after the man she always knew as dad's 'sudden passing when she was 19.' The Hadid sisters explained that Nix 'decided to take a genetic test out of curiosity,' which led to the shocking discovery that she had 'a biological connection' to the famous family. But the girls welcomed her with open arms, allegedly first meeting Nix in Paris when she was studying abroad in 2024. 'We've cherished this unexpected and beautiful addition to our family,' Gigi and Bella continued, adding they are hoping everyone respects their half sister's privacy. 'As siblings, we've had many open and loving conversations — with Aydan included — about how to support and protect her,' they shared. 'Aydan and her family value their privacy, and we fully respect that. We kindly ask others to do the same and honor her wish and right to her anonymity as she continues her life as a young woman in New York.' Besides Gigi, Bella, Anwar and now Nix, Mohamed is also a father to his oldest children — Marielle, 44, and Alana, 39, with his first wife, Mary Butler. Mohamed has not publicly acknowledged Nix as his daughter, but he does follow her on Instagram.
