15. Bailey #3
My heart gives one brutal, useless thud. I turn away and I start walking, fast, purposeful, toward the exit. But the room keeps swallowing me. People stop us.
Hands extend, with congratulations, questions and requests to stop for the cameras.
Jackson stays at my shoulder, moving with me like a shield without making it a scene.
Rachel is ahead of us. I almost make it to the edge of the crowd when a hand wraps around my arm, and I get yanked back, hard. Pain flashes up my forearm as I stumble and try to right myself. I look down and then up.
Luke.
His grip is punishing. His face is close, too close. His breath smells like stale liquor, and he reeks of panic.
“Bailey,” he says, voice rough like he’s been screaming into the void. “We need to talk.”
I keep my voice low and calm because I will not give him a scene. Not here.
“Luke,” I say evenly, “you’re hurting me.”
His fingers tighten like he didn’t hear me.
“I need...” he starts, eyes frantic. “I need... Bailey, you can’t... this...”
My stomach turns. I hate that my first instinct is still to protect him. To de-escalate. To soothe.
No more.
“Let go,” I say, quiet but clear.
His eyes flicker... rage, fear, something broken. But he doesn’t let go.
Then Jackson is beside me. His voice is low and dangerous in its calm. “Get your hands off her.”
Luke’s eyes snap to him, fury igniting.
“This is between me and my wife,” Luke spits.
Jackson’s expression doesn’t change.
“The second you put your hands on her,” Jackson says softly, “it stopped being private.”
Luke’s grip tightens again, like he’s daring the world. I feel my skin ache under his fingers.
“Luke,” I say again, voice tight now, “you’re hurting me.”
That finally registers somewhere, his fingers loosen a fraction, but not enough for me to pull away.
Jackson steps closer, blocking Luke’s body with his own without shoving, without escalating, just occupying space between us.
Security appears instantly, with one of Jackson’s team positioning on Luke’s side.
Rachel’s voice cuts in behind me, “Luke,” she says, “sign the papers. Do one thing for her. Don’t make this worse than you already have.”
Luke’s face twists, he looks past Jackson, searching for my eyes as if he can just catch them, he can pull me back into the story he still thinks we’re still in. I don’t give him that.
Jackson’s voice drops even lower, a warning meant for Luke alone. “You must be the dumbest fuck I’ve ever met, Carter. Stay away from Bailey. If you don’t, I will personally make sure the fame you’ve been chasing never happens.”
Luke flinches like he’s been hit.
Security’s hands are on him now; he tries to surge forward. Jackson doesn’t move and neither does the wall of security.
Luke’s eyes burn into mine one last time.
“I can fix this,” he snarls, voice cracking on the edge. “I can... Bailey... ”
I lean forward slightly, just enough that my voice reaches him without the room hearing. “No, you can’t.”
It’s the simplest sentence I’ve ever spoken. But it is anything but simple; it feels like a door locking.
Security moves Luke back, as Jackson’s hand touches my back, guiding me away. Rachel stays close, her presence steady. We leave the room. But my body shakes anyway. Because seeing Luke like that felt brutal.
Back in the hotel, the silence is different now, it feels like the quiet of an aftershock.
Rachel walks me to the door, “You did good,” she says softly.
I almost laugh.
Good?
I survived, that’s all.
Jackson’s team messaged Rachel to let her know they did a security sweep, ensuring nothing got out about the confrontation with Luke. Everything is contained, controlled... Quiet. The way my life is becoming: tragedy wrapped in professionalism.
Rachel waits.
“Do you want me to stay?” she asks.
I shake my head. Rachel nods like she understands and waits until she hears the door latch.
I stand in the room for a long time. My arm aches where Luke grabbed me and I know it will bruise.
I rub it, absently, like I can erase his touch with friction.
I walk to the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror.
The version of me the world buys stares back.
Perfect hair. Perfect makeup. Perfect life.
A mask.
My body starts to shake, so I reach for the sink.
I grip it like that will hold me together...
but I can't be held together, not right now... so finally... finally, I let it happen. A quiet collapse, tears spill as I press my hand to my mouth to try and keep the sound in. I slide down to the floor, back against the vanity, knees drawn up like I’m trying to make myself smaller inside my own body.
I think of the boy who promised me the world and the girl who believed him.
I think of every year, every compromise I made to try and hold us together.
And then I think of him and her and that video when he knew exactly what it would cost.
I breathe in.
Breathe out.
My chest hurts.
I let myself fall apart on the bathroom floor of my hotel room.