Chapter 41
forty-one
. . .
Sophia
The worst part isn't the silence. It's the perfectly reasonable excuses that come with it.
First, they were work-related. Budget meetings all day.
Early morning calls with the streaming team.
Then he was out of town with my brother, Wyatt, on their Manmorial weekend trip, which was extended into a week-long trip.
I stare at the string of texts from Grant, each one polite, professional, and completely hollow.
I moved the last of my things out of his house while he was out of town, and he hasn't said a word since he's been back, not about the empty drawers in his closet or my favorite coffee mug missing from the kitchen cabinet.
I've managed to slowly erase myself from his life one box at a time, hoping the gradual shift would spark something in him.
The distance has been growing since the night of the play, the night the press started wanting more from us.
I understood he was upset, so I wanted to give him space.
That's when I noticed how many pieces of myself I'd scattered throughout his house—my spare phone charger by his bed, my favorite sweater draped over his office chair, the fancy face wash I'd started keeping in his bathroom.
We never talked about me moving in with him. I just sort of adjusted into a routine with him. Moving back into my house was always the plan, but now it feels like it also signifies the end of whatever we just started.
My phone buzzes—Blair, not Grant.
BLAIR
Lunch?
An hour later, I slide into the booth at Olive's Bistro, a restaurant inside a Burbank hotel, perfect for private conversations. Blair's expression is carefully neutral, which is never a good sign.
"Just tell me," I say, pushing the menu aside.
"I had drinks with Marcus last night," she says, naming one of Grant's fellow executives. "There's…" She tilts her head from side to side. "Concern at the studio about perception."
"Perception," I repeat flatly.
"Some people are now questioning whether your relationship with Grant influenced the studio's decision to buy Survivor. There's talk about whether a first-time producer with a personal connection to—"
"Stop." The word comes out sharper than I intend. "The film is already shot. We're in post. It's done."
"I know. And the first cuts look amazing. But Soph…" Blair leans forward. "This is about future projects, too. You don't want to be labeled as a 'conflict of interest' hire."
I'm not sure what she's suggesting, exactly.
If it's to break off whatever this is with Grant, I'm not sure that's going to be an issue anymore.
The irony of this whole thing makes me laugh.
I spent months, maybe even a year, fighting my feelings for Grant because I didn't want our relationship to affect my career. But it looks like it's going to anyway.
"We've had some interesting inquiries," Blair continues carefully. "That period piece shooting in London. The Netflix series filming in Vancouver. Both solid projects, both far from LA."
My throat tightens. "You think I should leave?" That's not what I was expecting at all.
"I think you should consider your options." Her voice softens. "Have you talked to Grant about any of this?"
The laugh that escapes me is hollow. "Grant's barely talked to me in two weeks. Besides…" I twist my napkin, remembering the way he talked about those paparazzi outside Hazel's school like they were a physical threat he needed to eliminate. "He's got enough to deal with."
"Sophia—"
"Start looking into the other projects." The words feel like giving up, but maybe that's what I need to do. "Quietly. We don't need to make any decisions yet, but…let's see what's out there."
Last night, I made one last attempt to return to some sense of normalcy between us.
I invited him and Hazel to dinner tonight.
My house is finally ready—new floors, fresh paint, and a kitchen that doesn't smell like flood damage.
Maybe he will see that we can still work.
I spent this morning arranging Hazel's favorite mac and cheese ingredients on the counter, setting out the art supplies I bought her last week.
A pathetic attempt at normalcy, maybe, but I had to try one last time.
My phone lights up with a text from Grant.
GRANT
Rain check on dinner? Some of the board members want to meet.
The words blur as I stare at them. I type and delete three responses before settling on a simple reply
ME
No problem.
Professional. Polite. Empty.
My finger scrolls up to the carefully composed invitation I sent last night.
ME
House is finally fixed. Thought Hazel might want to help break in the new kitchen? Dinner at 6?
Such casual words, each one agonized over, trying to sound breezy while extending an olive branch.
Now the mac and cheese ingredients will only mock me from their perfect arrangement on the counter, and the art supplies will sit unopened, waiting for a six-year-old's imagination that won't be exploring them tonight.
The truth settles like cement in my stomach.
Grant isn't just creating distance—he's erasing us completely.
The realization should probably hurt more than it does, but after two weeks of polite deflections and closed doors, maybe I'm running out of ways to be hurt.
Or maybe I just finally understand that I've been refusing to see that whatever we were becoming, whatever I thought we might be, clearly meant something very different to him than it did to me.
Outside the restaurant, cameras start flashing before I've taken two steps. The questions come rapid-fire.
"Sophia! Is it true you're leaving LA?"
How do they even know this stuff? I just talked about it with Blair.
"Are you and Grant splitting up?"
"How does Geneva feel about your relationship with her daughter?"
"Is the studio pushing you out?"
I keep my head down as I rush to my car, but one question cuts through the chaos.
"Are you in love with Grant, Sophia?"
The question follows me home, echoing in my head as I walk through my beautiful, empty house—the house I originally bought while imagining cozy movie nights, Sunday brunches, family dinners, and lazy mornings. Now it just feels empty and lonely.
My gaze catches on a picture Hazel made for me, the one I hung this morning so she would see it. It pulls me back to what it might feel like to have a family—how real it felt, how possible.
But maybe that's the problem. Maybe I let myself believe in something that was never meant to last.
I pick up my phone one last time, and my thumb hovers over Grant's name. There are a dozen things I could say, a hundred ways to fight for this. Instead, I set the phone down and go to bed.
Sometimes, the kindest thing you can do for someone is to let them go before they have to ask you to leave.