4. The PR Machine #2
“God, I am so tired today,” he said, dropping his hands to his sides. “My mother had me running drills with the press team for six solid hours.”
He waited for my usual sympathy. He expected me to step forward, rub his back, and offer to heat up his dinner. He shifted his weight, leaning against the counter.
“They added three more interviews to the schedule,” he said, his voice tinged with irritation. “I didn’t even get a chance to sit down until the car ride home.”
I held my ground against the counter. My fingers hovered over the strap of my purse. One motion, and I could pull out the envelope. I could hand him the picture of our baby and wipe away the foul mood clinging to him.
But doing so meant ignoring the other woman sitting in his lap. It meant letting him erase my pain just because he had a long day on set.
I pulled my hand away from the bag. He had not walked in with an apology or a trace of guilt. He only wanted his invisible caretaker to manage his exhaustion. He didn’t even notice how stiffly I was standing.
I picked up my cell phone, the blank screen cooling my palm as I unlocked it. The screen lit up, revealing the photograph of Blaire draped over his lap in the dim trailer.
I turned the phone around and slid it across the granite toward him.
It stopped inches from his discarded keys. The bright glare of the screen illuminated the gap between us.
He blinked, looking down at the photo. He scanned the image as I waited for the realization to strike.
He did not flinch. He did not pale.
“I need you to look at that screen, Hayes,” I said. “I need you to explain to me why your co-star is sitting in your lap while the internet applauds your chemistry.”
He let out a harsh, exasperated sigh, tilting his head back to stare up at the high ceiling. He waved a dismissive hand toward the counter, refusing to meet my gaze.
“Are we really doing this right now?” he asked. “It’s just a harmless photo from the set that you’re blowing out of proportion.”
He scoffed, the sound echoing across the empty kitchen. He kept his gaze locked on the illuminated screen resting on the counter.
“Turn the screen off, Sutton,” he said. “I am not doing this right now.”
He reached up, rubbing his temples.
“You’re acting like I committed a crime,” he muttered.
I stared at him. He was not looking at me like a husband who just realized he hurt his wife. He was looking at me like a nuisance. Like an ungrateful assistant who was mismanaging his schedule.
I took a step backward from the edge of the island.
“You’re prioritizing a PR strategy over my humiliation,” I said, my voice dropping to a strained whisper. “She is practically sitting in your lap, Hayes. And you look thrilled about it.”
He stared at me across the counter, his eyes narrowed in exhaustion. He gestured toward the phone, brushing off my words.
“My mother has been doing this for decades, Sutton,” he said, adopting the slow, measured cadence of a handler talking down a frantic client. “She knows exactly how to market this movie.”
He leaned his weight onto his elbows on the granite.
“You need to stop obsessing over internet comments and understand how this business actually works so my team can do their jobs,” he said.
I looked at the purse sitting on the counter. The sonogram printouts remained hidden just beneath the leather flap. I had spent hours imagining this moment. I had planned to pull the glossy photos out and watch his exhaustion melt into pure joy.
Instead, he was defending Eleanor. He was defending the woman who orchestrated the photograph that made me invisible.
I grabbed my purse, the strap biting into my palm as I refused to reach inside. I refused to hand him the evidence of our child right now. Telling him he was a father was supposed to be a sacred, private moment, and his arrogance was ruining it.
“Your job is to act on a set,” I said. “Your job is not to erase our marriage so Eleanor can sell a fake romance to your fans.”
He pushed himself off the counter. He kept his eyes averted.
“I’m not standing here listening to this,” he said. “I’m done.”
He stepped around the island. He reached the barstool and grabbed his jacket, bunching the fabric in his fist as he turned his back to me and headed for the archway.
He ignored the photo, eager to escape the conversation and retreat to his side of the house.
“I’m not doing this tonight, Sutton,” he said. “I have a 4 AM call time tomorrow, and I cannot deal with this manufactured drama.”
I held my position in the kitchen. I swallowed the insult, refusing to raise my voice to match his irritation.
“I’m not manufacturing anything, Hayes,” I said. “You’re just choosing to ignore the reality of what you’re doing to us.”
He stopped walking. He stood in the threshold of the hallway, the bunched jacket hanging limp at his side. The silence stretched across the room. He shifted his weight, refusing to look back.
“We will talk about this tomorrow when you’ve calmed down,” he said. “Goodnight, Sutton.”
He stepped into the corridor, leaving the room without another word.
The thud of his dress shoes echoed down the hall. I listened as he walked deeper into the massive house, the rhythm fading into a dull tap. The silence of the empty estate settled over the kitchen. I stood alone under the pendant lights.
I exhaled a long breath, resting my hand over my stomach. The warmth grounded me. I pulled the bag flush against my hip, ensuring the glossy printouts remained safely inside.
He was overworked. The studio demanded grueling hours, and Eleanor controlled every minute in between. He followed her script because he lacked the energy to fight her. If I pulled the sonogram from the bag tonight, his apathy would ruin the news.
Sharing this news was supposed to be a beautiful, private celebration. I refused to let his foul mood taint the moment, or let our child become collateral damage in an argument about his co-star.
Tomorrow was our third anniversary. He would sleep off the stress of the press tour.
He would wake up, realize how dismissive he acted tonight, and offer a sincere apology.
We would share a quiet dinner away from the cameras, and I would hand him the envelope.
I just needed to preserve the secret for one more day.
I tightened my grip on the strap, watching my husband disappear down the hallway.
A door shut at the far end of the hall.