Chapter 10
10
Amelia
The Monday after the party is sent to do mortal damage to me. I’m sure of it. And not just because it’s the day I wake to the plagiarism allegation, but also because James takes the opportunity to try to weasel his way back in again.
He arrives at my condo right after he drops Sarah at school in the morning, sweeping in like he’s the boss of me. He acts like he’s extremely concerned about my career. Spoiler alert: he’s not and never has been. We argued a lot during our marriage about the fact I worked. He had many reasons for being against it, especially after Sarah was born, but really, all he wanted was me home where he could control me.
After spending time pretending to care, he shares his plan to help me fight the allegation, as if there’s no possible way I could manage this myself.
After that, it’s all downhill between us. We argue for what feels like an entire day but is closer to an hour. He does his best to manipulate the situation into what he can get out of it, which is more involvement in my life.
Toward the end of that hour, I put my fingers to my temple and close my eyes, wishing the stress away. Wishing him away.
“Amelia, you can’t just ignore this,” he snaps when I close my eyes.
I force them open. “I’m not ignoring it, and the fact you think I am shows me just how little you pay attention to what’s important to me and to what I say.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he starts, but I cut him off.
“Stop treating me like a fucking idiot!”
His eyes widen. I’ve never sworn at him. And I’ve never yelled at him like this. Not even when I fought my way to divorce.
When he opens his mouth to speak, I slam my hand up between us like a stop sign. “It’s my turn to speak.” My breaths are coming faster now, the heat of my anger burning through my chest, my arms, everywhere . “We are no longer married , James, a fact I’m sick and tired of having to remind you of. That means you don’t get a say in my life anymore. It also means you don’t get to come into my home and gaslight me. And in case you don’t know what that means, it’s that thing you do where you manipulate me by making me question the validity of my own thoughts?—”
“I’m aware of what gaslighting is, Amelia,” he says, his eyes hard. “And I can assure you that you’re way off base. But then, you always did need me to help you understand things.”
I stare at him, incredulous that a human being can be such an asshole. Then I stab a finger at him. “That! That’s gaslighting.”
He looks at me like I’m the dumbest woman in the world. “Is there a point to all of this? Or can we get back to me arranging William for you.”
His lawyer. Who, over my dead body, is getting anywhere near me again.
I have so much more to say, but I suddenly understand that it wouldn’t matter if I spent the rest of my life telling James how badly he treats me, he won’t ever hear me let alone listen to me.
With more calmness than I feel, I say, “No, we can’t get back to anything because you’re leaving.”
He carries on in the same exact way he always has with me. He ignores me. “William’s sent through a list of suitable PR firms for us to consider. We’ll need to issue a public statement.”
I take a deep breath. It beats my other plan, which is to grab the sharpest knife in my kitchen and hack him to death. “If you aren’t out of my sight within the next two minutes, I will call Dan and have him come up here and personally escort you out.”
That gets his attention.
But he doesn’t do what I’ve asked. Instead, he fixes me with a look so venomous my breath catches. “This is because of him , isn’t it?”
I know he’s referring to Gage, but I don’t take the bait. “No, James. This is because of me.” My voice stays level even though I’m consumed with fury. “This is what I want. It’s what I’ve wanted for over a year.” My eyes bore into his. “I want you gone.”
“No, Amelia, you want to spread your legs for Gage Black.”
His words are designed to shame me. I’ve had enough therapy to see them for what they are. They come from a place of deep, unmet need. James was never truly loved as a child, and he never healed himself from that. He took that aching need and twisted it into control. And when he feels me slipping away, he throws shame at me like a lasso to drag me back. He tries to make me the one who finally loves him. The one who doesn’t abandon him.
I’m a smart woman. I know that. But James has always had a way of getting into the cracks the world creates. The wounds every woman carries, shaped by a lifetime of being told we’re too much, not enough, never quite right.
He doesn’t create the doubt. He weaponizes it. And sometimes, I lose track of where the world ends, and he begins.
Staring at him now, I see just how much poison he’s filled with, and it causes me a moment of clarity I haven’t had yet. Whatever part of me still answers to him; she needs to remember her own power.
I don’t give him the satisfaction of defending my “shameful” behavior. That’s what he wants. I just turn and walk to the call panel by the elevator, jabbing the button for the doorman. When he answers, I ask him to come up.
“What the fuck are you doing?” James barks, storming toward me.
“We’re done here.”
He doesn’t stop. Still doesn’t listen. His hand clamps down on my bicep, hard, and he yanks me around to face him. “We won’t ever be done,” he bites out.
The shock of it hits me first. Then the anger. No one touches me without permission.
“Take. Your. Hands. Off. Me.” My voice doesn’t rise. Doesn’t tremble. It’s quiet, lethal, and final.
James has never touched me like this before and he drops his hand like he just realized he was touching something sharp. Confusion flickers in his eyes, then disbelief. He searches my face like he’s trying to find the version of me he could control. But she’s not there anymore. And he knows it.
The arrogance slips. Just for a second. Just long enough for something else to break through. Fear. Real sinking fear that he’s finally lost his hold over me.
“You don’t mean that,” he says.
I hold his gaze.
I don’t flinch.
I don’t speak.
And he sees it.
I am so done.
The elevator dings and Dan appears. “Hey, Amelia.” He flashes me his usual cheery smile. “What’s up?”
“Dan,” I say, my voice cool. “Mr. Kensington was just leaving.”
His smile falters. His eyes flick from me to James, then back again. He catches the tension immediately. “Understood.”
He steps forward, subtly positioning himself between us. “Sir, I’ll walk you down.”
As James moves, slower than necessary, I add, “And Dan? From now on, Mr. Kensington doesn’t come up unless I’ve personally approved it.”
Dan gives a short nod. “Got it.”
James doesn’t say a word as he steps into the elevator.
I don’t look away until the doors close between us.
The second they seal shut, my knees almost give out. I don’t let them. I stay exactly where I am, spine straight, jaw locked, hands clenched at my sides.
My skin still buzzes where he grabbed me. Not from pain. From rage. From disbelief.
I close my eyes.
Breathe.
Just once.
And then I walk back into my home like I haven’t spent the last hour ripping my insides out just to protect myself.
I wish I had the luxury of time to unpack just what happened, but I never have that kind of time. And today, I absolutely do not have it. Not when I have a plagiarism accusation to deal with.
The story broke yesterday, but I didn’t see it. I rarely check social media, and I spent most of yesterday in a daze over everything that’s happened with Gage.
I woke up this morning to a handful of missed calls from my agent, three frantic texts, and an email marked URGENT. I read the email a few times as the shock sunk in. He advised me the story is blowing up and that the timing couldn’t be worse with the Velocity Reign contract not fully signed yet. He also advised that he has PR on standby and has looped my lawyer in.
An hour after that email, he called to let me know the studio behind the film is reviewing their position. Apparently, social media is escalating the story into a full-blown scandal because Sofia Reye is the reigning queen of sad girl music, and I just became the villain in her origin story.
I should have known she’d come back to bite me on the ass.
Four years ago, we spent three brutal months working together on a film score. It started promisingly enough. Mutual respect and cautious collaboration. But it didn’t take long for the cracks to show.
We clashed over everything. Style. Tone. Tempo. She wanted control of every note, every measure, and when I pushed back, things got ugly fast.
What made it worse was the pressure. It was a big film. A high-profile director. Sofia was still up-and-coming then, desperate to prove herself. I was just trying to get the job done. But instead of working with me, she treated me like competition.
By the time we delivered the final mix, we weren’t speaking. I walked away with relief. She walked away with a grudge.
And now, she’s repackaged that grudge into a career-ruining narrative.
She’s accused me of lifting a theme we supposedly worked on together. That I passed it off as mine, reshaped it, and used it in the score for my last movie, the one that changed everything for me.
It’s a lie.
She didn’t even like the piece she’s claiming I stole. She shut it down the second I played it. But she has just enough evidence to seed doubt. An old scratch file, a few shared credits, maybe a timestamp that can be twisted.
And that’s the thing about doubt. It doesn’t have to be true. It just has to be loud enough.
Loud enough to scare a studio.
Loud enough to put my contract at risk.
My phone buzzes with another text.
It’s from my lawyer who is liaising with the studio and has advised me to stay silent while she reviews everything.
Lianne:
The studio is flying someone in tomorrow for a meeting. They want to go over everything in person.
My hands shake as I tap out a reply.
Me:
Okay. Where?
Lianne:
The Langham at 10:00 a.m. I need you calm, composed, and saying nothing until the meeting.
I stare at the screen for a long moment. Calm, composed, and silent are the exact opposite of how I feel. My hands are still unsteady, my heart’s racing, and my brain won’t stop cycling through every note I’ve ever written, searching for some piece of music that might have started with both of us and ended up in my work without me realizing.
But I know I didn’t steal anything because I’m meticulous. To a fault. I document everything. Every note. Every take. Every second of sound I create.
I also know that doesn’t matter right now.
What matters is that the studio’s sending someone across the country to meet with me. What matters is that my name is being dragged through headlines I didn’t ask for. And if I’m not careful, I could lose everything I’ve built.
My phone lights up with another text.
Gage:
Are you okay?
Gage:
Olivia is a top crisis management lawyer. I imagine you’ve got things under control, but if you need her, say the word and I’ll put you in touch.
I met Olivia at the wedding in Nashville. I liked her a lot.
But holy god.
How did I get to the point in my life where I need to contemplate hiring a crisis manager?
Me:
Thank you. My agent and lawyer seem to have things under control, but I appreciate the offer.
He comes straight back.
Gage:
You didn’t answer my question.
It’s not the only text of his I haven’t answered. I still haven’t replied to his message from Saturday night. The one where he said he enjoyed himself.
I meant to. But every time I start typing, I overthink it. Too casual? Too serious? Too soon? And now he’s checking in again, which I appreciate. I do. I just don’t know what to do with it.
I like him. Too much, maybe.
My fingers hover over my phone.
I type.
I delete.
I try again.
God .
Why is this so hard?
It’s nine years since I last dated. Really dated. I don’t count the few men I’ve gone to dinner with since my divorce. And I haven’t had sex with anyone since my divorce, so that means it’s nine years since I’ve had sex for the first time with someone. And oh boy, has my body changed since then.
I have no idea what the dating etiquette is anymore. Like, do people even date to get to know each other? Or do they just send each other cryptic texts, trade memes, and trauma dump at 1 a.m.?
And the whole app thing. Apps . Like ordering takeout, but with more disappointment. Sure, they existed when I was dating, but they weren’t everything. I never used them. Now? They are dating culture.
Swipe right if they don’t lead with gym selfies and “looking for a partner in crime.” Swipe left if their bio gives you the ick. Hope they don’t ghost you. Pray you don’t get murdered.
Honestly, the whole thing feels like a series of red flags held together by unhealed childhood wounds and curated playlists.
Everyone’s hiding behind vibes and vibes only.
I’ve forgotten how to flirt. I don’t know how to be casual. I mean, I had my first kiss at seventeen and lost my virginity to James when I was twenty. I learned how to have sex in the context of a committed relationship, not one where you have to pretend not to care afterward.
And now I’m trying to text a man who has cheekbones carved by gods, a tuxedo that gave me an actual hormonal imbalance, and probably his very own fan club, while I can’t even type a text without second-guessing my entire personality.
Me:
I’m okay.
As soon as I hit send, I drop my phone to the kitchen counter like it’s too hot to be in my hands a second longer.
My reply was fine. Totally fine. If fine means awkward and underwhelming and wildly late considering I still haven’t replied to his message from two nights ago .
Somewhere out there, women are breezing through conversations with ease. Effortless. Flirty. Meanwhile, I’m over here catastrophizing two words and flirting with a stress rash.
Of course, Gage being Gage, he calls.
My phone lights up with his name, and I stare at it like touching it might trigger a full-blown crisis. Who even calls anymore?
I just sent a two-word text and had to emotionally recover like I was sixteen again, stomach in knots, palms clammy, and one notification away from either euphoric bliss or emotional collapse. And now he wants to talk? This man is trying to kill me.
I take a breath and then do my best not to sound like the hot mess I am on the inside. “Hey.” My voice comes out smoother than I expected, which is both a win and a mystery, because nothing else in my body is operating like it should.
And then he speaks, and I find myself again. “Amelia.” Just his voice. That’s all it takes. Low, unwavering, and threaded with quiet concern. “Talk to me. Do you need anything?”
“I don’t know.” It slips out before I can stop it.
“Do you want to talk it out?”
A laugh escapes me. “God, we could be here forever if we do that.”
“It’s that rough, huh?”
Such a simple question, but it cracks me open because I’m tired, and confused, and worried. And somehow, he’s taken the pressure off. I’m no longer overthinking dating etiquette; I’m simply having a conversation with someone who cares how I am.
“Yeah,” I admit quietly. “It’s that rough.” Just saying it makes me feel a fraction lighter.
“I’m here if you need anything. Even if that’s just a shoulder to lean on.”
“Thank you. I truly appreciate that.”
He’s silent for a beat. When he speaks again, there’s an edge to his voice. “I mean it. You call if you need me. And we can push the meeting we’d planned for tomorrow. Or just cancel it altogether. I can take care of everything.”
Shit. The science fair. It completely slipped my mind today.
Gage and I had agreed to meet at his office at noon tomorrow. There’s a lot to cover, so I don’t want to let him down. I quickly do the mental math on my ability to make it to his office from the hotel by noon.
“No, I’ll be there.”
“Okay. But let me know if things change.”
“I will.” I pause, feeling the significance of this call. “This means a lot to me, Gage.”
“I’m here. You know where to find me.”
After his call, I sit in the stillness he left behind. My shoulders drop. My breath comes easier. Nothing is solved. Nothing is certain. But my panic has softened. And I don’t feel quite as alone as I did.