23. Skye
— ? —
Skye
The first industry event since the scandal.
I stand in front of the mirror in Ellen’s bathroom, applying lipstick with a hand that won’t stop shaking.
I’ve already had to wipe it off twice and start over.
The color is bold - a deep berry that demands attention.
I’m wearing emerald green tonight - a deliberate choice.
Not the victim. Not the villain. Just myself.
“You don’t have to do this,” Ellen says from the doorway. She’s leaning against the frame with her arms crossed, watching me the way she does when she’s worried but trying not to show it.
“Yes I do. If I hide forever, they win. Adriana wins. Everyone who whispered about me at that gala wins.” I cap the lipstick with more force than necessary. “I’m done hiding.”
“Okay. But if anyone says anything, I’m allowed to throw a drink in their face.”
“That’s assault.”
“That’s friendship.”
The Beverly Hills Hotel is a sea of silk and sequins, champagne and barely concealed judgment.
I walk through the crowd with my head high, feeling every glance, every whispered comment, every barely-there smile that could mean anything or nothing at all.
The crystal chandeliers throw prisms of light across the marble floors.
The air smells like expensive perfume and ambition.
I find Jayden across the room almost immediately.
He’s surrounded by people, as always. Laughing, charming, in his element.
Even without the CEO title, he draws attention like a magnet - it’s something in the way he holds himself, the way he takes up space without apologizing for it.
His suit is perfectly tailored, charcoal gray, the kind that probably cost more than my first car.
There’s a woman next to him. Young. Beautiful. Touching his arm while she laughs at something he said. Her dress is red, tighter than mine, and she’s leaning into his space like she belongs there. Her hand lingers on his forearm, fingers trailing down toward his wrist.
The old familiar panic rises in my chest. The paranoia. The fear. It claws up my throat like something with teeth, familiar and unwelcome.
What if nothing has really changed? What if she’s just the fool who keeps believing?
I can’t breathe.
I turn and walk toward the exit, pushing through the crowd, desperate to get outside before I fall apart.
My heels catch on the carpet. Someone’s elbow jabs my ribs.
I don’t stop. I can’t stop. If I stop, I’ll have to feel this, and I’m not ready to feel this, not here, not with the whole room watching.
“Skye?”
His voice cuts through the noise. I don’t stop.
“Skye!” A hand on my arm. Gentle but firm. I spin around, ready to fight, ready to run.
He’s there. Right there. Looking at me with an expression of genuine concern, his brow furrowed, his eyes searching my face.
“What happened? Are you okay?”
“I can’t do this.” My voice comes out thin, strained. “I can’t be at these events watching women throw themselves at you and wondering if-”
“If what? If I’m going to leave you for someone else?”
“If you’re going to stop seeing me again. Like before. If I’m going to become invisible.”
The words hang between us, raw and ugly. I didn’t mean to say them. Not here, not like this, not in a hallway where anyone could walk by and hear. But they’re out now, and I can’t take them back.
Old Jayden would have gotten defensive. Old Jayden would have said you’re overreacting or that’s ridiculous or you’re being paranoid. Old Jayden would have made me feel crazy for feeling anything at all.
This Jayden takes my hands.
“Tell me what you need.”
“What?”
“Right now. In this moment. What do you need from me?”
I’m crying. I can feel the tears sliding down my cheeks, ruining my carefully applied makeup, and I can’t stop them. The mascara I spent fifteen minutes on is definitely running. I probably look like a raccoon having a breakdown. I don’t care.
“I need you to see me. Even when the room is full of people. I need to know I’m the one you’re looking for.”
“You are. You always were.” He pulls me close, right there in the hallway, not caring who sees.
His arms wrap around me, solid and warm, and I let myself sink into him even though I know I shouldn’t.
“I spent twenty minutes scanning the room for you before you arrived. Zak asked if I was having a medical episode.”
I laugh wetly against his chest. “A medical episode?”
“He said I had ‘the panicked look of a man who lost his wife in a Costco.’ His words, not mine.”
“I’ve never even been to a Costco.”
“Neither have I. That’s why it was a weird comparison.
” He pulls back and wipes my tears with his thumb, gentle, careful.
His touch is warm against my cold cheeks.
“The point is, I was looking for you. I’m always looking for you.
And if you want to leave right now and go get tacos from that truck you like, I will abandon a room full of important people without a second thought. ”
“You hate tacos.”
“I hate performative networking more. Let’s go.”
A camera flash. Then another.
We turn. A photographer at the end of the hallway, lens aimed directly at us. Capturing whatever this moment is - me with mascara running down my face, him holding me like I’m something precious.
“Mr. Rowland! Care to comment on the reconciliation rumors?”
Jayden doesn’t let go of me. Doesn’t step back. Doesn’t put professional distance between us for the optics.
Instead, he looks directly at the camera and says: “My wife is the most important person in my life. Any other questions?”
More flashes. More shouting. The photographer is calling out questions, but they blur together into white noise.
“I can get security,” he murmurs against my hair.
“Don’t.”
“Skye-”
“Let them take pictures.” I turn in his arms. Face the camera. “Let them see.”
His breath catches.
“You’re sure?”
“I spent months being photographed as the villain. The disgraced wife. The charity thief.” I look up at him, and something settles in my chest - something that feels almost like peace. “Let them photograph this instead. You, holding me. Me, letting you.”
Something shifts in his expression. Want, yes - I can see it in the way his eyes darken, the way his jaw tightens. But also wonder. Like I’ve given him something he didn’t expect.
He kisses my forehead. Soft. Deliberate. Knowing the cameras are watching.
Then he whispers, low enough that only I can hear: “I want to do a lot more than kiss your forehead right now.”
“I know.”
“I want to take you home and show you exactly how much you matter. I want to put my mouth on every part of you until you forget anyone ever made you feel invisible.”
My knees actually weaken. That’s not supposed to happen in real life. That’s supposed to be a romance novel cliché, not something that happens to actual women in actual hotel hallways.
“We’re in public,” I manage.
“I know.”
“There are cameras.”
“I know.”
“So maybe save the dirty talk for when we’re not being photographed by someone who will sell this to TMZ.”
He grins. That real grin. The one I fell in love with - crooked and warm and just for me.
“Rain check?”
“Rain check.”
But I’m thinking about it the whole way to the car. His mouth. Every part of me. Forget anyone ever made you feel invisible.
We sit in his car in the parking lot, the engine running, the air conditioning humming softly. The city lights twinkle beyond the windshield like scattered diamonds. Neither of us moves to actually drive anywhere.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say. “There were important people in there.”
“There’s no one more important than you.”
“That’s a nice thing to say.”
“It’s the truth. I just forgot it for a while.” He turns to face me, and in the dim light his eyes are very dark. “I’m sorry I made you doubt it. I’m sorry I made you feel like you were competing for my attention.”
“I shouldn’t have panicked. She was probably just a colleague.”
“She was nobody. I don’t even remember her name.” He reaches over and takes my hand. His palm is warm, his fingers strong and familiar. “The whole time I was in there, I was looking for you. Hoping you’d show up. Watching the door.”
“Really?”
“Really.” His thumb traces circles on my palm, small and hypnotic. “You’re the only person I want to see in any room, Skye. I’m sorry it took me so long to remember that.”
I cry again. But this time, it’s not from fear or pain.
It’s relief.
I reach over and take his hand - really take it, threading my fingers through his, pulling it into my lap. First time I’ve initiated contact like this since the separation. First time I’ve reached for him instead of waiting to be reached for.
His breath catches. Such a small thing, but I feel it like a victory.
We sit in the parking lot for what feels like hours, talking about everything and nothing. About the Foundation. About his therapy. About the screenplay I’m still struggling to finish. About the future we might have, if we’re brave enough to build it.
When he finally drives me home, I don’t want him to leave.
I don’t say it. Not yet. But I’m thinking it.
And that’s enough for now.