17. Damage Control
Chapter seventeen
Damage Control
Hayes
The chemical stench of aerosol hairspray lingered in the narrow corridor behind the main stage.
I stood motionless on the taped floorboards, surrounded by tangled black rigging cables.
Ten feet away, a velvet curtain blocked the glare of the tracking spotlights.
A low, continuous hum radiated from the auditorium, vibrating up through the soles of my shoes.
Thousands of industry elites sat on the other side of that fabric, waiting for the broadcast to resume.
My mother stepped into my line of sight. She grabbed the lapels of my tuxedo jacket, yanking them down to force my shoulders into a stiffer posture. She swiped a hand across my chest, chasing an invisible speck of dust.
“Hold still, Hayes,” Eleanor said. “You’re creasing the suit.”
I did not pull away, standing perfectly rigid as she manipulated the fabric. Days ago, I had been hauling burlap sandbags in the freezing coastal rain and bleeding into the mud to secure a dilapidated barn. Now, my mother was treating me like a lifeless mannequin in a sterile theater.
Blaire stepped up beside me, her perfume masking the aerosol fumes. She slid her hand down my arm and gripped my elbow tight. Tilting her head toward the stage, she forced a wide, breathless smile for an imaginary camera. She held the expression, her teeth bared in the dim lighting of the wings.
I stared at her hand gripping my arm. She thought she had won. They both believed that driving those black SUVs onto Driftwood Blooms had successfully bullied me into submission. They assumed my silence in the car ride south was a surrender.
Eleanor reached for my wrists, straightening my cuffs. She took a step back, inspecting her work with a critical eye.
“When they call your names, you walk her up those stairs by the hand,” Eleanor said.
She pointed a finger toward the narrow gap in the curtain.
“I want maximum eye contact and a lingering hug before you take the trophy,” she continued.
The starched edge of my shirt collar pressed tight against my throat. I stared straight ahead at the red fabric. I was a Trojan horse standing inside their gates. They posed me and dressed me, oblivious to the fact that I was just making sure they stood close to ground zero.
I reached my free hand down to my waistband. I found the wireless microphone transmitter clipped to my belt. A thin black wire ran up the inside of my shirt, connecting to the lapel mic near my collar. I traced the raised edge of the battery cover.
“Just follow my lead, Hayes,” Blaire whispered.
She squeezed my arm, leaning her head closer to my shoulder.
“The studio heads are sitting in the front row, so we need to sell this romance perfectly,” she said.
The artificiality of the room pressed in on me.
I thought about Sutton sitting at a wooden kitchen table sorting wholesale invoices.
I thought about the quiet, fierce loyalty she offered without demanding a single flashbulb in return.
The Hollywood machine had stolen her life to protect this exact illusion.
I kept my thumb pressed over the transmitter. I kept my eyes fixed on the curtain.
“Don’t worry about the studio,” I said, sliding my thumb over the switch on my belt. “I am going to give them a performance they will never forget.”
“And the award for Best On-Screen Chemistry goes to… Hayes Gallagher and Blaire Hastings!”
The PA announcer’s voice boomed through the massive auditorium speakers, shaking the plaster above our heads. The crowd erupted into a deafening roar. The floorboards vibrated under my shoes. Blaire pulled my arm, her grip tight on my jacket as she led me out from the dark wings and onto the stage.
The spotlights hit my eyes with a blinding glare, the heat of the bulbs beating down on us as we crossed the floor. Thousands of industry executives, actors, and directors rose from their velvet chairs to applaud the golden boy and his leading lady.
The noise was suffocating. I stared out at the sea of glossy, expectant faces. None of these people cared about the man wearing the tuxedo. They cared about the brand, the ticket sales, and the profitable illusion my mother had built for them.
The applause washed over me, ringing hollow against the plaster walls. I thought of my wife miles away on the California coast. I pictured Sutton weathering a massive storm and protecting a drafty greenhouse in the freezing rain while I stood on a stage soaking up fake admiration.
We reached the center podium. A beaming presenter stepped forward, holding the trophy out toward us.
“Congratulations to Hollywood’s favorite new couple!” the presenter shouted over the crowd noise. “Come claim your award!”
Blaire let go of my arm. She stretched her hands out, ready to accept the hardware. I did not move. I stared at the trophy, refusing to raise my hands. I refused to touch it.
The presenter hesitated, leaving the trophy hanging in the air between us. The choreographed script fractured. Blaire glanced at my empty hands. She grabbed the award herself, shifting the weight to her left arm, and reached for the podium microphone.
“Oh my god, thank you all so much!” Blaire said into the mic, her rehearsed smile unwavering. “We are just so incredibly honored—“
I stepped in front of her. I used my shoulder to box her out, forcing myself between her and the podium. I clamped my hand over the head of the microphone, muffling her voice.
“Step back, Blaire,” I said, wrapping my fingers over the steel mesh. “I’m taking this microphone.”
The presenter blinked, staring at my empty hands. The man’s practiced smile dissolved into total confusion. He lowered the metal trophy, stepping backward away from the center podium as an uncertain murmur rolled through the front rows of the auditorium. The microphone remained live.
“We’re done playing the game,” I muttered to the presenter.
I stepped forward, taking his place directly in front of the stand.
I wrapped my hands over the podium, gripping the edges.
The speakers emitted a high-pitched whine as I adjusted my stance, bending closer to the wire mesh.
The audience stared up at me, a sea of shapes barely visible in the shadows of the massive auditorium.
I looked at the studio executives sitting in the front rows.
These were the people who demanded my endless press tours, the people who wrote the checks that I had foolishly believed would secure my future.
My stomach turned. I had traded the absolute safety of my wife for their applause, sacrificing the only real thing in my life to appease strangers who didn’t care if I existed once the cameras stopped rolling.
I stared directly toward the main broadcast camera stationed at the back of the theater.
“I am not accepting this award today, because the chemistry you are applauding is a manufactured lie,” I said, my voice booming through the speakers. “For the last three years, I have been hiding my incredible, beautiful wife from the world.”
A sharp gasp erupted from the front rows. The murmurs instantly dissolved into a stunned, echoing silence.
I shifted my weight, planting my feet firmly as Blaire grabbed my jacket, trying to yank me away from the microphone.
“Hayes, what the hell are you doing?” she hissed, her voice frantic in my ear. “Stop talking right now!”
I ignored the pull of her hand. Blaire’s desperation didn’t matter to me anymore. My career was already dead; I was just making sure the rot couldn’t spread any further. I leaned heavier over the podium, keeping my chest square to the red tally light.
“I convinced myself I was keeping her invisible to protect her from the media,” I said into the microphone. “But the truth is, I let my PR machine treat her like a dirty secret just to sell movie tickets, and it cost me my family.”
The shock held, stretching across the massive auditorium.
Thousands of people sat frozen in the chairs, staring up at me.
The expectation of their attention had dictated my adult life, turning me into a coward who sacrificed my marriage for a fabricated image.
Now, as I stared at the motionless crowd, that suffocating pressure finally vanished, replaced by a cold certainty.
I didn’t care about their shock or their judgment.
“She has finally found hard-earned peace, and I refuse to drag the media to her doorstep by naming her here,” I said into the microphone. “But I am choosing her.”
Blaire shoved against my shoulder, her heels scraping across the stage floorboards. She lunged for the microphone stand, plastering a bright, desperate smile on her face as she leaned into the mic.
“He’s joking!” Blaire shouted over the live feed, staring out at the silent crowd as her voice cracked. “It’s an inside joke from the set, everybody!”
“Nobody is laughing, Blaire,” I said into the hot microphone, holding my ground at the stand.
I shifted my weight, blocking her access to the microphone.
The studio executives in the front row were already pulling their phones from their pockets, their faces pale in the glow of their screens.
The machine was waking up, scrambling to initiate damage control.
I had to deliver the final blow before the network director cut the broadcast feed.
“Effective immediately, I am breaching my franchise contracts and stepping away from this industry permanently,” I said, my voice cutting through the rising murmur. “I am going home to my wife.”
I pushed away from the podium. Without waiting for a response, I turned my back on the paralyzed audience and walked off the stage, stepping into the cool shadows of the wings with my lapel microphone still clipped to my jacket.
I headed straight for the Green Room. The muffled roar of the auditorium faded as I pulled the door shut. I took three steps onto the plush carpet before the knob violently turned and the hinges squealed behind me.