Chapter 29 #2
I open the message and my breath catches.
“Oh my God.”
My hands shake as I lock my phone and press it to my chest, excitement bubbling up so fast it’s almost dizzying. I want to do a lap around the café.
Instead, I dial my manager.
Renee picks up on the second ring. “Tell me you saw the email.”
“Are you serious?” I blurt out. “Like—serious serious? This isn’t one of those ‘let’s talk about the possibility of maybe—’”
She laughs. “No maybes. They’re booking you. Full buyout. Union rate. Travel and accommodation covered.”
The athleisure campaign shoot I did weeks ago went really well, the engagement numbers exceeding projections by a lot. Enough that the brand wants to expand the campaign. They want to fly me to LA for a commercial. My first real commercial.
I slide onto a stool, legs suddenly weak. “Renee. Oh my God.”
“I told you,” she says gently. “You photograph beautifully in movement. Brands love that. They want authenticity, and you give it without trying.”
“When would I have to go?”
“Next month. Can you make it happen?”
My mind races—logistics, schedules, obligations… Sylas. Griffin.
The smile slips a little. “Renee… this is amazing. It really is. I just—I need to confirm my availability first with work.”
There’s a pause on the line.
Renee sighs, and I can hear the frustration tucked beneath it. “Okay, but you can’t pass this up, TJ. These opportunities don’t wait. Brands move fast, and if you hesitate—”
“I just need to make sure I’m not screwing anyone over. I’ll get back to you soon, I swear.”
We hang up, and I sit there for a second, my heart pulling in two directions.
This campaign would pay more than any deal I’ve ever landed. Enough to shove my savings forward in a way that will actually feel tangible.
This would cover more than half of what’s left.
I press my lips together, excitement fizzing in my chest, but another thought edges in.
I feel like I’d be shirking my responsibilities, a commitment I made. Plus, I’ll miss Sylas. I’ve grown fond of him in a way I didn’t expect. Movie nights. Pancake Saturdays. The way he runs to me when he’s excited, as if I’m already part of his world.
And… yeah. I like being around his dad, too. Even if Griffin communicates mainly in grunts like it’s an Olympic sport.
I’ll talk to Griffin tonight, but first, I need drinks.
I open the group chat.
Drinks tonight? I have some news.
Demi storms out of the kitchen before I can even lock my phone.
“What news, bitch?” she demands. “I’m right here.”
I laugh, leaning against the counter as I tell her everything in a breathless rush—LA, the commercial, the money, the potential. Her eyes go wide, hands flying to her mouth.
“SHUT UP!” she screeches. “That’s huge.”
Our phones buzz at the same time.
Eric
I’m always down for drinks. Just don’t let me take any shots, I’m opening tomorrow.
LOL, noted. Demi is in. Mya? Will your husband let you out of his sight tonight?
Mya
My husband doesn’t own me. I’ll meet you guys after work. Where?
Before I can answer, Eric jumps in.
Eric
The Back Door.
Demi and I burst out laughing.
Demi
Trying to get laid tonight, Eric?
Eric
Shhhhhh. It’s just a lot more chill there.
I shake my head, smiling.
Fine. See you all at 6!
Demi heads back to the kitchen, and I open Instagram out of habit, thumb drifting through my notifications. I tap into my story views, scanning the familiar list of names.
My chest gives an unexpected pull when I see @built2last, and I try to ignore the memories of what we did.
I tap the profile. There’s finally a new photo that was posted this morning.
Nothing special at first glance. A black ceramic mug sitting on a wooden table.
But then I zoom in. My brows knit together.
Wait.
That’s Willow’s. The mug has our logo stamped on the side, and the table is one of ours, too. I literally wipe those tables down five days a week.
I stare at the photo a little longer. There’s no caption or tags.
A strange feeling settles in my stomach.
Does he know where I work? Was he here this morning?
The thing is, I don’t advertise Willow’s on my socials. Sure, I occasionally post a coffee or a pastry, but I’ve never said where I work.
Have I served this person before? Is he one of our regulars? Someone who comes in every morning for the same drink? Someone I’ve talked to?
I’ve never felt uncomfortable at work or noticed anyone lingering around the café. Never had a customer make me feel unsafe or watched.
The thought should probably weird me out.
Instead, it just makes me want answers.
Demi and I walk into The Back Door a few hours later.
The lighting is low, washed in amber and soft pink neon that glows against exposed brick walls.
A disco ball spins lazily overhead, scattering light across the crowd.
The bass from the music thrums just enough to feel it in my chest without drowning out conversation.
Eric is already here, sprawled in a booth, one arm slung over the backrest. When he spots us, his grin spreads wide.
“Took you long enough.”
“Please,” Demi scoffs, sliding in beside him. “You’ve been here ten minutes max.”
I drop into the seat across from him.
Seconds later, Mya steps inside, glowing, hair perfectly styled, outfit effortlessly expensive in a way that screams corporate boss bitch.
“That’s a billionaire’s wife!” Demi shouts as Mya reaches us.
She laughs, rolling her eyes as we pull her into quick hugs.
The waiter appears almost instantly, notepad in hand. He looks over to Eric first. “Drinks?”
“Martinis,” Eric replies without hesitation. “Four.”
The waiter’s mouth curves. “Dirty or—”
“Filthy,” Eric responds with a wink, leaning his chin on his hand.
The waiter laughs, scribbles something down, and walks away.
Demi doesn’t miss a beat. “You were totally flirting.”
Eric grins. “I’ve been in a drought lately.”
I snort. “A drought?”
“Yes,” he says, serious. “A desert. A wasteland.” He glances at Mya, then smirks. “Which reminds me. You know who hasn’t been in one?”
Mya groans. “Eric—”
“Our girl here,” he continues, pointing at her, “with her billionaire, CEO, tabloid-famous husband.”
Mya blushes, waving him off. “Hush.”
“Be loud and proud, girl!” Demi says just as the drinks arrive.
I chuckle, lifting my glass, but inside, I’m barely holding it together. Because I’m the only one at this table who knows the truth: that Mya’s marriage to her boss is a business deal.
I take a sip of my martini and smile into the rim of the glass.
Some secrets are delicious to keep.
“So,” Mya says, leaning forward with narrowed eyes. “Are you going to tell us what we’re celebrating, or do we need to guess?”
I laugh and tell them about the commercial in LA.
“That’s amazing!” Eric says, smiling wide.
“A commercial?” Mya squeals. “Sis, that’s not a small gig.”
They order shots—even after reminding Eric about his one-drink rule. We clink glasses, and I let myself soak in their warmth, pride, and the way they believe in me so fiercely.
The night is easy until the second martini settles in my stomach and the celebration becomes real.
I glance down at the condensation sliding along my glass.
I should be excited.
Somewhere underneath all the “oh my God, this is actually happening” panic, I’m thrilled. This is the kind of opportunity people pray for.
“TJ. You got quiet,” Mya says, interrupting me from my thoughts.
I blink, realizing Demi and Eric have started arguing about whether the waiter’s biceps are natural or the result of steroids, which means Mya has caught me spiraling in 4K.
“I’m not quiet,” I retort.
She raises her eyebrows.
I sigh and set my glass down. “I have to tell Griffin.”
“Are you worried he’ll say no?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know. Technically, he’s my boss, so yes, I have to make sure the time off works, but it’s not like I’m asking to abandon his child in the wilderness.”
Mya laughs. “So what’s the big deal?” She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “You deserve this, TJ. So go home and tell him just that. And who knows, maybe you’ll both have more to say.”
My sister holds my gaze until I have to look away.