Chapter Sixteen
Lyla
The outdoor lounge is scattered with drinks, half-faked laughter, and the low hum of cameras that never really turn off. Warm string lights shimmer over the pool, turning every ripple of water into liquid gold—designed, I’m sure, to make emotional breakdowns entertaining.
I’m curled into the corner of the sectional, pretending to sip a drink that tastes like nothing. Damon sits beside me, close but never touching, his steady presence usually a balm. Tonight, it only makes the tension under my skin feel sharper, like a live wire humming too close to water.
Conversation drifts the way it always does this late—loose, aimless, everyone filling the silence because nobody wants to look boring on cable television.
Ava saunters in from the production hallway, fresh drink in hand and the glossy-eyed energy of someone who’s just found out something juicy. She drops onto the chair across from us, legs crossed, lips already curving.
“Okay.” She scans the group with a satisfied little smirk. “Has anyone else wandered past the monitor bank in the back hallway?”
A few people shrug, mild interest at best.
“Scott and Valerie.” Ava raises her brows, letting the names hang like bait. “I only caught a little bit of it, but I just gotta say… That private terrace setup did not go to waste.”
I freeze. Ice slides down my spine and pools low in my belly. My chest burns.
“Girl, spill,” Kylie demands.
Ava takes a slow, theatrical sip. “Valerie shot her shot. And from what I saw on the feed”—she pauses just long enough for the group to lean in—“it was getting spicy.”
Laughter ripples. Someone whoops. Another calls Valerie bold, like it’s a compliment instead of a knife.
I stare at the condensation sliding down my glass, watching droplets race each other the way my pulse is racing in my throat. The words sink in slowly, as if cold water was filling my lungs—not a shock, but a gradual, suffocating chill.
Underneath the hurt, something uglier blooms. Jealousy so sharp it tastes metallic. Because for one stupid night, I let myself believe every word he growled against my skin. It mattered. More than you know.
I should have known better.
A decade of scars, and I still let him split me open again with nothing but that velvety voice and those strong, sure hands. Now I’m right back where I swore I’d never be—falling into pieces while he’s somewhere at a candlelight dinner, no doubt with another woman’s mouth on his.
To think I’d sworn I’d never let myself feel this way again.
I’m older, but apparently no wiser.
I force my face into a neutral expression and take a slow sip of my drink, which tastes more like ash with each second that passes.
“Lyla.” Emily’s voice is soft, close. She crouches beside my knees, eyes searching mine.
I flash her the smile I’ve perfected for brides who are one wrong napkin shade away from a meltdown—small, bright, bulletproof. But Emily doesn’t blink. Her expression doesn’t change.
“I’m okay,” I lie, throat tightening around the words. “Really.”
She stays quiet, rubbing slow circles on my arm like she’s waiting for the dam to crack. For one weak second, I almost lean in. Almost let the sting behind my eyes spill over.
Then anger surges—hot, clean, aimed squarely at myself—and I straighten.
“It’s nothing,” I assure her, turning back toward the pool. “He’s just a guy.”
She doesn’t believe me, but she lets it go. The conversation drifts on around us. Ava has already moved on, gossip spent, the group laughing about something else like my entire world didn’t just tilt on its axis.
Footsteps echo on the stone stairs. Someone whistles low.
Valerie appears first, stunning in a sunshine-yellow dress, skin vibrant with a sun-kissed glow. She looks to Scott, smiling, as though she enjoyed being with him tonight. Scott walks a step behind her, steady, composed, the ghost of a satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Seeing them together is like a punch that has landed right between my ribs. My breath catches so hard; the glass trembles in my hand.
Valerie peels off toward the group, instantly swallowed by the chorus of “How was it?” and “Tell us everything!” She sinks into a chair with effortless confidence.
“It was great,” she announces, voice honey sweet. “I enjoyed our time together.”
“And Scott?” someone teases.
She glances back at him, grinning like they share a secret. “Surprisingly…tolerable.”
Laughter ripples through the lounge. Scott gives a silent nod, eyes scanning the group—until they lock on mine.
My mind swarms with every awful question I’ve been avoiding all night.
Is he moving on?
Did he think of me the whole time?
Or did he forget I existed the second she came into view?
A sick wave rolls through my stomach, hot and sour. I told myself I was prepared. Told myself distance was best. But one look at him and that tether between us yanks tight around my heart.
I tear my gaze away.
Damon nudges my knee, voice low. “You good?”
“I’m fine.” My smile is plastic, but it doesn’t fool him. His brow lifts, knowing. He doesn’t push. Smart man.
Miranda sweeps in like she’s been waiting for blood in the water, clapping her hands with bright, predatory glee. “Group debrief! Highs, lows, awkward moments, romantic sparks—everything. Cameras are rolling!”
The collective groan could rattle the palm trees.
Of course she wants our psyches on display.
Valerie goes first, keeping her responses vague and surface-level. Food, view, ambiance. Warm but noncommittal. Nothing that would give the editors too much to work with.
Then Miranda’s gaze clicks onto me like a sniper scope. “Lyla, you’re someone who builds other people’s love stories for a living. Watching one potentially unfold tonight… What does that stir up for you?”
The question lands hard. If there weren’t twelve lenses pointed at my face, I’d rather answer with a slap across her Botoxed cheek. Instead, I straighten and smooth my expression into the same calm I use on hysterical brides.
“Honestly?” My voice comes out sugar-sweet and razor sharp.
“I think it’s great. Some people need to explore every shiny new option before they figure out what they actually want.
” I let my eyes flick to Scott for half a second.
“Watching someone chase that? It’s the most familiar thing I’ve seen all week.
But I learned a long time ago not to hold my breath waiting for the process to finish. ”
A sliver of vicious pride flares in my chest.
That felt good.
Scott’s jaw tightens. He seems…alarmed. Like he just heard what I said, and his first instinct is to immediately know why.
His eyes find mine, searching, frantic, like he’s trying to trace the damage back to its source.
For a suspended second, he looks ready to stand up and drag me somewhere private.
I don’t give him the chance, tearing my gaze away before he can speak.
Whatever that look means, I’m not interested.
Fool me once, shame on him. Fool me twice…
Miranda looks satisfied and moves on.
Thank God.
The debrief wraps a few minutes later. The others scatter toward their own suites, the night air thick with humidity and unspoken drama.
“I’m calling it,” I announce, pushing to my feet. “I’m exhausted.”
I need to crawl into the suite I share with Scott and force sleep to shut my brain off before I do something stupid like cry.
“Want me to walk with you?” Damon asks, already rising.
We fall into step. The night air is humid with a light breeze, but it does nothing to settle the storm inside me.
A long stretch of silence passes before he speaks, voice gentle but direct. “We haven’t really talked since you got back from your unexpected night with Scott.”
Unexpected would be an understatement.
My steps falter for half a second.
He keeps walking, eyes on the path ahead like he’s simply stating facts. “I’ve been watching you tonight. You’re in your head. Distant. Like you’re carrying something you’re not ready to face.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Damon—”
“I’m not pushing for answers tonight,” he cuts in calmly, still patient, steady.
“I’m just saying I see it. And I’m still here.
I still want to see where this goes between us.
” He glances over, expression open and level.
“I know we’ve only known each other for a few days, but we click, Lyla.
We enjoy each other’s company without the unnecessary drama or fireworks.
That’s enough for me, and I think it’s what you’ve been wanting, too.
I’m not going anywhere just because things got complicated. ”
The words land like a quiet boundary and a reminder all at once.
“I’m not trying to hurt you or lead you on,” I whisper.
“I know.” He stops at the entrance to my suite. “Just make sure you’re choosing for the right reasons. Not because of him. Not because of the cameras. And not because you’re worried about wasting my time.”
What are those reasons anymore?
Would coupling up with Damon give me clarity like I thought? Would he help me realize what I want, or would it do the exact opposite?
Damon is in every way, shape, and form what I need—on paper. There is absolutely nothing wrong with him. But what he’s asking is compatibility before passion. Why does that not feel quite right?
So why, after watching Scott with Valerie, does safe suddenly feel like it’s not enough? Why does seeing Scott move on hurt more than it should?