Chapter 8
RAFE
“…I’m just saying,” Miles murmurs, leaning in like we’re talking about the weather and not the fact that I might be detonating my own life in slow motion. “If he got served, he’s going to call.”
The room is warm with low lighting and the kind of background music that exists to make donors feel classy without making them sleepy.
It’s a gala, technically—there are round tables, centerpieces, a silent auction set up near the open bar, people in tailored outfits and moneyed smiles—but it isn’t stiff.
Not with our crew here. Not with Eli’s wife, Annie, bouncing between volunteers and guests like she’s running mission control, not with Drew already charming the pants off the older donors, not with Vinny posted near the back wall like an immovable piece of furniture.
And not with Eli’s whole heart wrapped around this thing.
Tonight’s fundraiser is for a foundation connected to the illness his dad just crawled out of. The kind of diagnosis that makes everyone pretend to be brave until they’re alone in a bathroom, staring at their reflection, trying not to fall apart.
Eli’s dad recovered. Not cleanly or easily, but he’s here. Alive. Smiling at people like he didn’t spend months flirting with death. Which is why the room feels less like a celebrity event and more like a community wrapped in expensive fabric.
Outside, though, it’s a different world. It always is.
We saw it when we pulled up—barricades, security, a knot of fans pressed up against the sidewalk like the building itself was the stage.
Phones held high, names shouted, that particular wave of noise that comes when our popularity crests again.
It moves in cycles now. Some months you can almost pretend you’re invisible.
Then a song hits a trend, a clip goes viral, and suddenly you can’t walk ten feet without someone trying to touch you.
Tonight felt… wrong for that.
This is charity. This is Eli’s dad. This is a room full of people trying to do something good, not a concert line. And still, out there, the crowd was wild—more desperate than excited, like they didn’t care what kind of night it was as long as we were in the building.
Vinny clocked it the second we got out of the car, gaze sweeping, jaw contracting.
He said nothing—he never does when he’s working—but he’d doubled the check at the side entrance and, with Seth, murmured something to the venue’s security lead before we even hit the lobby.
No one gets through these doors without a name, a face, a wristband.
And even then… people try.
Miles shifts his champagne flute from one hand to the other, face calm but eyes sharp.
He’s the only officially single one in the band, which is a sentence that shouldn’t matter and still does. Because any time now, I’m going to be joining him with that single label.
He watches me the way someone watches a friend about to do something irreversible.
I sip my soda. “I don’t know if he’ll call,” I say.
Miles raises an eyebrow. “Rafe.”
“What?” I snap, too quick. I smooth it out before it becomes a scene. “I mean—he might. He should. That’s… that’s normal, right?”
Miles doesn’t answer immediately. He tips his head as if weighing how honest he can be without pushing me off a cliff. “You’ve been waiting for him to reach out for years,” he says quietly, even though I’ve never admitted that truth aloud. “So yeah. You expected a call.”
My jaw locks.
Across the room, Eli’s laughing with a couple of donors near the stage, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up like he can’t stop being himself even in a room full of people trying to impress each other. Drew’s beside him, smooth and steady. Vinny scans the entrances, half bored, always alert.
Miles nudges my elbow. “You heard anything at all?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
And that’s the thing.
There’s been nothing. Complete radio silence.
I know the papers were served a few hours ago—my very discreet lawyer texted me the second she saw the notification hit my legal portal.
I’d expected something after that. A call, a text, even a “What the fuck is this?” because even if Ollie hates me, even if he thinks I’m the villain, this is still… us.
Whatever we are.
But there’s been nothing. No angry message. No pleading. No explanation. Not even a short thank you like the one he sent months ago when I confirmed the donation.
I should be relieved. Shouldn’t I?
This is what I wanted. Quiet. Clean. Private. A divorce filed in a way that stays out of the spotlight. No headlines, no “shocking romance revelation,” no public dragging of Ollie Marshall’s name through tabloids that would treat him like a scandal instead of a human.
It took me almost four months to find the nerve to do it. Four months of staring at the forms, filling them out, deleting them, filling them out again. Four months of my brain screaming that it was betrayal and my heart whispering that it was survival.
Even then I did it carefully. Through lawyers who can be trusted. Through channels that would keep it contained. Through a trust that wouldn’t flag entertainment news. Through quiet.
Because I could divorce him without outing him. That was the deal I made with myself.
Miles studies my face like he can see every thought I don’t say. “You doing okay?” he asks.
I laugh once, humorless. “Define okay.”
“Rafe.”
I look at him. Really look. Miles is dressed in a suit that fits him like it was born there, hair neat, smile easy for anyone who needs it. He’s always been like this—steady, grounded, the one who can hold a room without needing the spotlight.
The sensible one. The one who can say hard truths without making you feel cornered.
“The weird part,” I admit quietly, “is that I keep checking my phone like a teenager.”
Miles’s mouth twitches. “Because you wanted a reaction.”
“I wanted….” I stop, swallow. “I don’t know. Proof he’s real. Proof he cares. Proof—”
“That he’s human,” Miles finishes, softer.
I exhale, long and shaky.
Miles reaches up and adjusts my tie for no reason except he knows I need something normal to latch onto. “He might call,” he says. “Or he might be in shock. Or he might be busy doing the thing athletes do where they pretend their emotions don’t exist until they explode in private.”
I snort. “That’s specific.”
Miles shrugs. “I’ve met athletes.”
My mouth almost smiles. It doesn’t last, though, because my brain flickers back to wondering about Ollie’s face when he got served.
Did he look like he’d been punched? Did he look like I felt? Or did he just… nod, accept it, and move on?
The question makes my chest ache in a way I don’t want to name.
We’re interrupted by movement near the entrance. A cluster of people arrive, laughter loud enough to carry. Photographers aren’t allowed inside the event—Eli made sure of that—but there are still phones, still glances, still the unmistakable shift that happens when someone famous walks in.
Miles’s attention sharpens. “Oh, hell.”
I glance over and immediately spot him. Elliot Hale.
A-list, global level. The kind of actor who can show up in a room and the atmosphere changes like the laws of physics adjusted to accommodate him.
Elliot’s got that effortless charisma that makes people want to orbit.
He’s in a black suit with an open collar, hair perfect in a way that looks unintentional but definitely isn’t.
He’s laughing with a woman beside him, hand on her back, posture relaxed like he’s never been nervous a day in his life.
He looks toward the stage, spots us just to the side, and his grin breaks wide.
“There they are,” he calls, voice carrying over the ambient chatter like he owns the room.
Miles mutters, “And now we’re doomed.”
I snort, loving Miles’s apparent loathing for Elliot a little too much, especially as I don’t buy it for a second.
Elliot crosses toward us with the confidence of a man who knows he’s welcome. He was in our first-ever music video—before we were anyone. He did it for a tiny fee because he liked the song and he liked us, and somehow that stuck. Over the years, friendship turned real.
Elliot pulls Miles into a quick hug. Miles stiffens at the contact. Elliot ignores his reaction, then lands his gaze on me. “Rafe,” he says, warmth softening his expression. “You look annoyingly good.”
I deadpan, “I’m dying inside.”
Elliot laughs like he thinks I’m joking. Miles gives me a look like don’t.
Elliot leans in closer, lowering his voice. “Proud of you guys for doing this,” he says, nodding toward the event. “Eli’s dad is a warrior.”
“He is,” I say, and I mean it.
Elliot’s gaze lingers on me for a fraction too long. He’s perceptive in the way some actors are—too good at reading micro-expressions.
“You all right?” he asks quietly.
I blink. “Yeah.”
“Uh-huh,” Elliot says, unconvinced but letting it go, just as Drew appears. “Anyway, I brought money. Tell me what to bid on.”
Drew grins. “That’s our favorite sentence.”
Elliot laughs and turns, scanning the silent auction table like he’s hunting.
As he moves away, Rosa appears at the edge of the crowd, waving. She looks gorgeous in a deep red dress, hair down, and glasses on. Beside her is Luis—tall, kind-faced, dressed like he’s trying to blend in.
He’s an accountant, too, which makes me want to laugh because Rosa really does have a type.
She threads through the room toward me and kisses my cheek. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I say, softer than I’ve sounded all night.
Luis offers his hand. “Good to see you again, man.”
“You too,” I reply, shaking it. “Thanks for coming.”
Luis’s smile is easy. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Rosa glances between me and Miles, then lowers her voice. “Everything okay?”
Miles opens his mouth, probably to lie. I beat him to it. “Fine,” I say.
Rosa’s eyes narrow. She doesn’t believe me, but she also doesn’t press—not here, not in public, not at a charity event.
She squeezes my arm once and leans closer. “After,” she murmurs.
I nod.