Chapter 7
LEXI
The next morning, I woke to the sound of my name. Sharp. Precise. The way my sister said it when she was trying not to yell.
“Lexi.”
My eyes snapped open. Sunlight poured through gauzy curtains, too bright, too honest. My tongue felt like cotton, my brain like static. I knew that tone—it was the sound of Hannah’s patience stretched thin, the one that came right before she started talking like our mother.
I rolled over and blinked at her silhouette in the doorway. Coffee cup in hand. Hair perfect. Fury disguised as calm.
“Morning,” I rasped.
“Don’t,” she said. Just the one word. A command.
I sat up slowly, the sheet sliding down to my waist. Carrie appeared behind her, wearing a peace-offering smile.
“I brought caffeine,” she said lightly.
“That bad?”
Hannah’s expression didn’t move. “Try catastrophic.” She set her cup down on my nightstand like punctuation. “You were trending at three a.m. #LexiMontgomeryFightNight.”
My stomach dropped.
Carrie winced. “It’s bad optics, babe. But we can manage it.”
I rubbed my temples. “I didn’t fight anyone. I didn’t even hit anyone.”
“No,” Hannah said, “but someone did. Someone who looked a lot like your date.”
“He wasn’t my date,” I shot back. “I don’t even know his name.”
Her brows lifted, sharp. “Even better.”
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, pressing my palms to my knees. The wooden floor was cool against my bare feet, the quiet hum of the ceiling fan almost mocking. “I just needed air,” I said, quieter now. “The house feels like a museum. I couldn’t sleep. I thought—”
“That you’d sneak out alone late at night?” Hannah cut in. “In a new city? Without security?”
I met her eyes. “That I’d feel normal for five minutes.”
“Normal?” She laughed once, incredulous. “You’re the most recognizable woman on the East Coast right now. There’s no normal for you. There never will be again.”
Something hot and defiant rose in my chest. “That’s exactly the problem.”
Carrie cleared her throat gently. “Maybe we sit?”
No one moved. The air between my sister and me crackled. We’d fought before—over contracts, wardrobe, men—but this one felt different. Older. Like something that had been simmering for years was finally boiling over.
“You think I like being followed?” I said. “You think I enjoy pretending to be grateful every time a stranger shoves a camera in my face?”
“I think you forget what all that attention pays for,” Hannah snapped. “The houses. The trips. The security. The privacy you claim to hate losing.”
I stood. “You mean the control you get off on having.”
Her lips parted, hurt flashing in her eyes. “That’s not fair.”
“Neither is living in a cage.”
Carrie’s voice cut in again, firmer this time. “Hey. Enough.” She set her cup down and planted herself between us. “You both love each other, which is the only reason this hasn’t turned into a viral sister meltdown yet.”
We stared at her.
She sighed. “Look, it could’ve been worse. That guy really did spike your drink. You didn’t drink it, and you’re here, so let’s start with gratitude.”
The room tilted for a second, the memory slicing through me. The man in uniform, charming, disarming. The glint of his wrist as he lifted his glass. The stranger’s hand clamping over mine—steady, sure, saving.
“I keep replaying it,” I admitted. “That moment. The sound when his fist hit. The way he disappeared right after, like—like he didn’t even want me to thank him.”
“Probably didn’t,” Hannah said, the bite gone from her voice now. “Probably didn’t want to be recognized.”
“Still,” Carrie murmured. “He saved your life.”
I stared at the wall, my pulse uneven. “Maybe.”
Hannah sank onto the edge of the bed, suddenly looking her age again. “Do you realize what would’ve happened if you’d actually drunk that?”
I didn’t answer.
Her hand found mine. “Promise me, Lexi. No more disappearing acts.”
I swallowed hard. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I promise.”
Carrie exhaled like she’d been holding her breath the whole time. “Good. Then we’re going to eat, shower, and face Franklin. He might be pissed.”
That earned a reluctant nod from both of us.
The kitchen smelled like toast and tension. The three of us sat around the farmhouse table, the morning light painting gold stripes across the worn wood. My phone lay between us, face-down. The monster under glass.
“You should look,” Hannah said, her tone softer now. “It’s already out there. You can’t hide from it.”
“I know,” I murmured, flipping it over.
The notifications were endless. Gossip accounts. Fan edits. Slow-motion clips of the punch. My own face frozen mid-shock, mouth open, eyes wide. The comments were worse.
— She’s drunk again.
— Is that her new man?
— Poor Lexi. Always chaos.
— That uniform guy’s career is over.
I scrolled until my stomach turned, then shoved the phone away. “They make up their own stories, anyway.”
“That’s what the mute button’s for,” Carrie said gently.
Hannah took a sip of coffee, still watching me. “You should post something neutral. A thanks for concern, nothing major. It’ll calm the press.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“You’ll do it,” she corrected.
The urge to argue surged again, but I bit it back. Fighting more wouldn’t fix anything.
Instead, I escaped to the bathroom. The mirror caught me mid-movement—hair tangled, circles under my eyes, the ghost of last night still clinging to my skin. I showered, brushed my hair, painted on enough foundation to look like I hadn’t almost ruined my career twelve hours earlier.
When I came out, Hannah was already loading the car. Efficiency as penance.
“Let’s go,” she said, and I followed.
The drive to set was beautiful. Early-morning light skimmed across the water, turning it to molten glass.
The stillness soothed me, even as my nerves hummed. Somewhere out there, maybe across this very water, was the man who’d stepped in last night—gone before I could even ask his name.
Would I ever see him again?
I told myself it didn’t matter. But the truth was, I couldn’t stop picturing him—the calm precision, the way his hand had felt against mine. The quiet command in his voice. I should’ve been terrified. Instead, I’d felt … safe.
And that was dangerous in its own way.
When we arrived, the set buzzed with controlled chaos. Crew members hustled between trailers, arms loaded with cables and coffee cups. Seagulls screeched overhead. The scent of salt air mixed with sunscreen and fresh paint from the rebuilt dock.
Franklin stood near the monitors, one hand on his hip, the other cradling an espresso like it was holy water.
“Morning,” I said.
He didn’t look up. “Morning, Lexi. Let’s try to stay on schedule today, shall we?”
The words were polite. The tone wasn’t.
“Of course,” I said, keeping my voice even.
Carrie squeezed my shoulder as she passed. “You’re fine,” she whispered. “He just needs to brood.”
Brooding was Franklin’s favorite. He thrived on tension the way other men thrived on oxygen. But I could feel it—his disapproval coiled tight, waiting for me to slip.
Wardrobe and makeup were mercifully quick. A linen sundress, bare face, hair tied back. “Stripped-down realism,” Franklin had called it. “Raw and vulnerable.”
I stepped onto the dock. Benji was already there, leaning against the railing, script in hand. He smiled when he saw me, warm and easy.
“Hey,” he said. “Rough night?”
“Something like that.”
He handed me a bottle of water. “I saw the clips. People are assholes.”
I laughed softly. “You said that before about the critics.”
“Applies universally,” he said, smiling.
His kindness loosened something in me. He knew how to read my edges. “Thanks,” I said quietly.
“Anytime. And don’t let Franklin get under your skin either. He’s pretending not to be mad, which is worse than him actually being mad, but it’ll pass.”
I arched an eyebrow. “You sure?”
He grinned. “Give him a perfect take before lunch, and he’ll forget everything else.”
“Good to know.”
Benji had worked with Franklin more often than me.
We rehearsed the scene—a quiet conversation, all soft gazes and implied longing. Franklin’s voice floated across the set: “Nice, but make it realer, Lexi. Like you’re aching for something you can’t have.”
If only he knew.
As Benji delivered his lines, I looked past him—past the camera, past the glinting water—and thought of the man from last night. The way he’d stepped between me and danger like it was second nature. The weight of his presence.
The ache Franklin wanted was already there.
When the scene wrapped, Franklin clapped once. “Good. That’s the tone. Hold onto it.”
Benji leaned closer, voice low. “See? Perfect take. He’s in love again.”
I laughed, and some of the tension broke. “I’ll try not to enjoy it too much.”
Lunch was served under a tent overlooking the marsh.
Crew chatter hummed around me, the easy rhythm of people who belonged somewhere.
I ate quietly, grateful for the noise. Hannah hovered near craft services, on a call, her posture all business again.
She hadn’t mentioned our little fight, and I hadn’t either.
That was how we healed—through avoidance and time.
My phone buzzed once in my pocket. I ignored it. Then again. Then again.
Finally, I looked.
Another flood of messages: PR updates, gossip blogs, fan theories. But one thread made me stop. A post from a local news account: Police investigating incident involving unidentified Navy officer at Pelicangate. No arrests made. Witnesses describe a “civilian male” intervening.
Unidentified. Civilian.
He hadn’t left a name. Not even to the cops.
I stared at the screen until the letters blurred.
Whoever he was, he didn’t want recognition. He’d acted, then vanished.
I closed my phone, a strange ache curling low in my stomach.
Later, Franklin wrapped early, apparently satisfied that I hadn’t self-destructed twice within twenty-four hours. Crew members packed up, laughter and clatter echoing off the water.
As I walked toward the trailer, Benji caught up. “You okay, really?”
There it was again. Why did people keep asking me that question?
I hesitated. “Define okay.”
He gave a small smile. “Alive. Grounded. Still breathing.”
“I’m working on it.”
He nodded. “That’s all any of us can do.”
For a moment, we stood there, watching the marsh reeds sway. Beyond them, the horizon shimmered—a line between the world I knew and the one I couldn’t quite reach.
“Do you ever wish,” I said softly, “that you could just start over? Not famous, not followed. Just anonymous.”
Benji’s gaze was steady. “Every day.”
The honesty of it startled me. He squeezed my hand once, friendly, and walked away.
I stayed, watching the sun across the water. My reflection shimmered faintly in the surface—Lexi Montgomery, actress, cautionary tale.
And somewhere out there, a man with no name had risked himself for me and disappeared before the flashbulbs could find him.
I didn’t know why that mattered so much. Only that it did.
When I finally turned back toward the trailers, the air smelled like salt and something electric—like the world was holding its breath, waiting for whatever came next.
And I realized I was, too.