Chapter 11
BENNETT
Iwoke up to a quiet house and the other half of our bed still empty.
But at least my wife was under the same roof again.
Not that it provided much comfort with the pain and sadness I’d seen in her pretty brown eyes last night.
I was no longer quite so certain I’d be able to figure out a way to make up for all the damage I caused.
Dragging my ass out of bed, I went through the motions I’d been forcing all week. Bathroom, shower, get dressed. Then I headed downstairs to make a shot of espresso that still didn’t taste how it did when Laina made it for me.
This time, I didn’t stop there. I brewed another shot of espresso, pulled the oat milk from the fridge, filled a tumbler with ice, and mixed it all together with a couple of teaspoons of raw sugar.
Screwing the top on the tumbler, I set it on the top shelf of the fridge, then tore a page from the notepad in the junk drawer.
Made you an iced latte. It’s in the fridge.
— B
There was so much more I wanted to say, but Laina had been very clear about needing distance, and I didn’t want to overstep. I left the note on the counter and was still standing there when Lucy came down in an oversized sweatshirt and shorts with her hair in a messy knot.
She headed straight for the cupboard. “You’re up early.”
“Need to head to the studio to review the rough cuts from filming yesterday.” I moved aside so she could reach the glasses. “There’s leftover pasta salad if you want it.”
She poured some orange juice for herself and leaned against the counter, wrinkling her nose. “Pasta salad doesn’t scream breakfast to me.”
“Fair point.” I tilted my head toward the pantry. “I saw a couple of boxes of cereal in there that your mom must’ve gotten yesterday.”
Lucy glanced at the note, then at me. “Is she sleeping in?”
“Think so.”
She grabbed an apple from the bowl—another sign Laina was home—and headed back toward the stairs. “Don’t work all day.”
“I won’t.”
When she was gone, I slugged down my espresso, rinsed my cup, picked up my keys, and looked once more at the note on the counter before walking out to the garage.
The latte was only a small gesture. And something I should’ve been doing all along since my day usually started before hers. Just another example of how I’d taken my wife for granted.
Heading into the garage, I started the G-Wagon and pulled out of the driveway before I made my first call of the day. One I hadn’t planned for until about one o’clock this morning.
Julian Hayes was my lawyer. We usually only talked a couple of times a month, except during contract negotiations with the network. He was a shark, and I wouldn’t earn nearly as much as I did without him on my side.
I was hoping he’d be able to help me come up with some options to help fix the mess I’d created.
Even though it was barely eight on Saturday, he answered on the second ring. “Morning, Bennett.”
“Hey, Julian. I’ve got you on speaker, but I’m driving to the studio, so there’s nobody else in the car with me.” I turned onto the main road. “I need options. The online stuff isn’t slowing down, and Laina’s the one paying for it.”
“Define what you want protected. Her name, her image, or the ongoing narrative?”
My hands clenched harder around the steering wheel. “All of it. As much as possible.”
“Then we should start with the narrative. Pull in your publicist, or better yet, hire a new one since she hasn’t done shit to take care of this mess yet,” he suggested.
“A clear statement from you might help. Full ownership, no defensiveness, and an explicit request that the press and public leave her out of this going forward.”
I’d worked with Sheila for six years, but Julian was right.
She’d done practically nothing to minimize the situation, and her focus had been on minimizing the damage to my career instead of my marriage.
I’d just been too wrapped up in work, Lucy, and missing Laina to realize it. “And when they ignore it?”
“Then we get less polite. Takedown notices on the worst uses of her face and personal details. Quiet calls to a few editors making it clear that continued personal targeting creates problems they don’t want.”
“The broadcast was a public event, though,” I pointed out.
“But Laina isn’t a public figure, so she has much stronger protections under right of publicity and defamation laws than you,” he explained.
“Her image from the event is fair game for news coverage, but the way it’s being used in memes and GIFs is damaging to her reputation, and that’s where I come in. ”
“Okay.”
“The studio’s PR team can help apply pressure if we frame it correctly,” he added.
I merged into traffic, a muscle jumping in my jaw. “I should have called you that night.”
“Focus on what you can still control. I can put you in touch with a damn good publicist, send a notice of termination to Sheila, and work with your new publicist to draft language today. I can also loop in the network’s people if you want institutional weight behind it.”
“Yes,” I agreed.
“To which part?”
My answer was easy because I finally felt like I was at least doing something to improve the mess I’d caused. “All of it.”
“I’ll have something to you by this afternoon. If Sheila calls, direct her questions to me. And in the meantime, don’t feed the story. No comments or clarifications that keep her name trending.”
“Understood.”
“This helps contain the damage. It doesn’t undo it,” he warned. “Make sure you’re clear on the difference.”
“I am.”
“Good.” He paused before adding, “Do you want the number for a divorce attorney I trust?”
It was a good thing I was stopped at a red light because his question stunned me. A divorce was the last thing I wanted.
“No,” I bit out. “This isn’t anything like when you and your ex split.
I’m the one who fucked Laina over, and she’s not the kind of person to play games if she decides to walk away.
It’d be pretty damn straightforward since there’s no prenup, no assets either of us owned before we got married, everything is communal property, and I’d give her spousal support for as long as she wants since I wouldn’t be half the success I am today without her. ”
“Okay, I’ll be in touch.”
The call ended, and I drove the rest of the way to the studio wondering if I’d fucked up badly enough that my wife would want to end our marriage.
I’d never had a problem concentrating on rough cuts before, but my mind kept drifting to home, wondering what Laina and Lucy were doing while I was gone. If they were reconnecting now that they’d smoothed things over.
I hadn’t even considered working from my home office today, even though I had secure screening software on my laptop. Which was probably for the best because Laina had asked for space. That would’ve been the complete opposite.
I’d always come into the studio for this part because the professional-grade monitors and sound systems allowed me to spot minor visual glitches or audio issues that would’ve been easy to miss on my laptop.
And the editing bay was quiet except for the low hum of equipment, which was rarely the case at home with a teenage daughter.
I dropped into the chair in front of the monitors, the rough cut of episode six already loaded. I hit play and made notes on timing and a reaction shot that ran half a second too long. It wasn’t until I hit the pirate scene that I paused the cut and leaned back in the chair, filled with regret.
I’d always taken inspiration from people and events, but this was different.
I had spent years turning pieces of my wife into material and then acted surprised when the exposure destroyed her sense of safety.
Laina wouldn’t see herself in this scene, but it was the last time I would ever use anything she said or did for the basis of a scene for Sally or any other fictional character I created.
And if she ever let me back into her life in a real way, the old pattern couldn’t stay.
I needed to be a better husband, father, and person in every way.
Which included being home more. Paying attention to what my wife and daughter needed.
Protecting them however and wherever I could. Like I should’ve been doing all along.
My work would always matter to me, just not more than the woman I loved. I’d never thought it had, but my actions said otherwise.
I finished the pass on the rough cut with less patience than usual, logged my notes, and sat for a moment in the quiet bay before shutting the system down.
The show would go on with or without me. But my marriage wouldn’t.