Ellery
The apartment was still warm from the night before, sunlight cutting pale lines across the hardwood, quiet in that heavy, waiting kind of way.
I’d borrowed one of his shirts after the shower—soft, too big, the sleeves swallowing my hands.
It smelled like him. I told myself that’s why I was still wearing it.
My hair was half-dry when my phone started buzzing across the counter. Once. Then again. Then again.
I frowned, wiping my hands on the hem of the shirt, picking it up. Twenty notifications, maybe more—texts from Naomi, the foundation board, numbers I didn’t even recognize. My pulse tripped before I opened a single one.
Then I saw the headline.
STORM STAR STEALS TEAMMATE’S GIRL — FOUNDATION DIRECTOR AT CENTER OF TEAM SCANDAL.
I froze.
The words blurred, then sharpened again as I scrolled. Pictures filled the screen—Beckett and me at the gala, swept up in the heated kiss, his jacket draped over my shoulders, his palm steady at my back. Flash after flash after flash.
It looked damning.
My throat tightened. How did they find us?
The phone slipped from my hand onto the counter. The sound echoed too loud in the silence.
Was this why he left?
Was this what his meeting was about?
He must’ve seen it first. Maybe someone from the team called. Maybe Cam. He’d left to protect me before the story could break over my head.
My chest hurt thinking about it—him seeing those pictures, realizing what they’d twisted us into. What they’d turned me into.
I reached for the phone again, hands shaking, scrolling through the flood of messages. Naomi’s name blinked near the top:
Don’t freak out.
Too late.
The screen kept lighting up with new calls and alerts. I pressed my palm flat against the counter, forcing myself to breathe.
The apartment still smelled faintly of his cologne, sharp and grounding. The same scent that had clung to my skin last night when he’d kissed me like I was something worth breaking rules for.
Now, because of one headline, one set of photos, he’d be painted as the reckless one again—the story everyone loved to twist.
I was just the proof they needed.
“You left to protect me. I just hope you’re not paying for it now.”
The phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.
It skittered across the counter like it was alive—lighting up with messages I didn’t want to see, headlines I already knew would gut me.
I flipped it face down. The silence that followed was worse.
If I stay here, I’ll drown.
The thought landed with the kind of clarity that didn’t feel like panic anymore—it felt like survival. Sitting here in Beckett’s apartment, surrounded by his things, his scent, his absence, I could already feel the walls closing in.
The mug from last night still sat on the counter, a half ring of coffee dried at the bottom. The hoodie he’d left draped over the chair was gone, but I could still picture it—like a ghost of comfort I didn’t deserve.
I needed to move. To do something.
I walked to the bedroom and grabbed my clothes from where I’d left them neatly folded on the dresser.
The motion felt mechanical, rehearsed. I pulled on black trousers, a cream blouse, then slipped into my blazer—my version of armor.
I tied my hair back tightly, the elastic snapping once before it held.
By the time I looked in the mirror, the woman staring back at me didn’t look wrecked. She looked composed. Manageable. A performance of control I’d perfected long before last night.
My phone buzzed again.
Are you okay? Don’t go online.
Too late.
I exhaled through my nose, typing back with fingers that didn’t feel steady.
Already did. Going into work.
The three dots blinked for a long moment before her next message appeared.
Elle…
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t know what to say.
I wasn’t okay. I wasn’t falling apart, either. I was hovering somewhere between the two—numb, but too aware.
Outside, the town was already awake. Cars moved, horns blared, life went on like the world hadn’t just labeled me the villain in a story I didn’t agree to star in.
I slipped my phone into my bag, grabbed my keys, and paused at the door. For a second, I almost turned back. I thought about leaving a note for him—something simple, something honest.
But what could I even say?
I’m sorry you’re paying for loving me?
I wish last night could’ve stayed ours?
None of it would make a difference.
So I straightened my shoulders, turned the handle, and stepped out.
The hallway light flickered as I walked past, the hum of the elevator filling the silence. My reflection in the metal doors looked like someone else entirely—someone who’d learned the hard way that even good things could turn dangerous under a headline.
As the elevator descended, my phone buzzed again in my bag. I didn’t check it.
All I could think, over and over, was that I had a foundation to run. Donors to reassure. A reputation to salvage—not for me, but for everyone who counted on me to stay standing.
I could fall apart later.
Right now, I had to look like I hadn’t already started.
The office felt different that morning.
Still dark enough that the lights flickered when I turned them on, blinds half-open to a washed-out sunrise. The air was stale—like the whole building had been holding its breath overnight.
I slipped my key from the lock and let the familiar scent of coffee grounds and printer ink wrap around me. Normally it was comforting, grounding. Today, it just reminded me that this place was supposed to be steady when I wasn’t.
The click of my heels echoed as I crossed to my desk. Everything looked the same—posters from past fundraisers, the framed photo of the first kids’ soccer team we’d sponsored—but the stillness was heavy, expectant. Like the air before a storm.
I set my bag down, exhaled, and forced myself to move. Movement meant I was still functioning.
The door creaked open again a few minutes later.
Naomi slipped in, hair half up, dark circles under her eyes. She stopped when she saw me, her mouth falling open. “You shouldn’t be here yet.”
“I couldn’t stay home.” My voice sounded calm, which was either a miracle or a lie. I grabbed the nearest stack of papers and straightened it, then another. My hands needed something to do. “If I stay home, I’ll think about him. I can’t do that right now.”
Naomi closed the door quietly, like she was afraid any sudden sound might break me. “You think coming here’s better?”
I didn’t answer. Because it wasn’t about better. It was about control—thin, fragile control, but it was all I had left.
She sighed, dropping her bag on the counter and heading for the coffeemaker. “Then we go into crisis mode.”
The word made something in my chest twist. Crisis. As if that was what we were now.
I nodded anyway. “Okay. We’ll start with a statement draft. We’ll get ahead of it.”
“Ellery…” she started gently, turning to look at me. “You shouldn’t have to manage this alone.”
I smiled, sharp and automatic. “You know me. I’m not great at letting people handle my mess.”
Naomi filled the silence with the soft grind of beans and the drip of water. “Cam called this morning,” she said finally. “He said PR’s handling the team side. But your name’s already trending.”
The words hit like static—familiar, numbing. “Of course it is.”
“Do you want me to call the board? Or—”
“No.” I cut her off too quickly. “I’ll handle it.”
She studied me, eyes narrowing, but didn’t argue. That was the thing about Naomi—she knew when to push and when to let me build my walls back up.
When the coffee machine beeped, she poured two mugs, sliding one across the desk. I wrapped my hands around it, letting the heat seep into my cold fingers.
“I just want to make sure he’s okay,” I whispered before I could stop myself.
Naomi didn’t answer right away. She reached out, brushed her thumb across a smudge on my sleeve—Beckett’s shirt, still faintly smelling like him. “He will be,” she said. “He’s not the kind of man who stays down.”
I wanted to believe her. God, I did.
But as the headlines replayed in my mind, I realized I wasn’t sure if she was talking about the scandal—or about what we’d lost overnight.
The phone started ringing before the clock even hit nine.
At first, I thought it was one or two calls—people checking in, wanting clarification, maybe even offering support. But it didn’t stop. The line lit up again and again, a relentless pulse of sound that filled every inch of the office.
Sponsors. Board members. Reporters. Strangers who suddenly remembered my number.
Each one had a tone that told me what they wanted before they even spoke—sympathy wrapped in curiosity, outrage disguised as concern.
I straightened my shoulders, took a slow breath, and answered the first call. Then the next. Then the next.
“The foundation remains focused on our programs,” I said, my voice steady, professional, measured. “No further comment at this time.”
The first few times, my hands shook a little as I hung up. By the fifth call, the words came out smooth, practiced—like armor I could slip into without thought.
Naomi hovered at the neighboring desk, typing furiously, juggling her own flood of emails. Every few seconds, she muttered something under her breath—usually “sharks” or “vultures” or something far less polite.
Her frustration grounded me. It was easier to handle anger than pity.
One of the reporters was persistent, his voice oily through the receiver. “Ms. James, are you confirming that you and Mr. Mason are in a relationship? Were you involved during his suspension?”
I closed my eyes, forcing calm into every syllable. “The foundation remains focused on our programs,” I repeated.
He pressed again, trying to get a rise out of me. I didn’t give him one.
When I finally hung up, Naomi hissed, “I swear, if I could reach through the phone—”
“I know,” I said softly. “Don’t. It’s what they want.”
The phone rang again before the silence could settle.
“The foundation remains focused—” I caught myself mid-sentence, realizing I’d already said it aloud before even picking up. My throat tightened.