18. The Hot Mic
Chapter eighteen
The Hot Mic
Sutton
My fingernail scraped against the thick paper of the quarterly payroll ledger.
I dragged the tip down the column of black ink, tracing the expenses line by line.
My other hand hovered over the laptop keyboard.
I struck the keys harder than necessary, making them clatter in a harsh rhythm as I punched the digits into the glowing spreadsheet.
I refused to let my mind drift away from the math.
Every time the cursor blinked, the memory of Hayes standing on a red carpet in a tuxedo threatened to break my focus.
The Silver Screen Guild Awards were broadcasting live in Los Angeles tonight.
I shoved the thought down. I toggled to a new tab on the screen, forcing myself to calculate the winter fertilizer costs instead of mourning a man who chose the Hollywood machine over us.
The savory smell of simmering vegetables drifted from the cast-iron stove. A wooden spoon scraped against the bottom of a pot.
“You have been staring at that exact same column for ten minutes,” Ruby said.
She pulled a kettle off the back burner. It hissed as she poured the boiling water into a ceramic teacup.
“I just need to verify a discrepancy on the previous page,” I replied, typing another sequence of numbers. “The shipping invoice from last week doesn’t match the supplier’s total.”
I flipped the page back, pressing it flat against the table. The sleeves of my cardigan bunched around my wrists. My stomach pressed against the edge, but I kept my posture stiff. I grabbed a pen and circled a line item.
“The supplier miscounted the crates,” Ruby said, walking across the linoleum. “I already corrected it on the clipboard out in the shed. Stop driving yourself crazy over five dollars.”
She set the cup down next to my laptop with a soft clink.
I reached for the cup. The scalding heat radiated through it, burning my palms. I gripped it tighter. The sting tethered me to the kitchen, forcing my attention back to the table. It was much easier to focus on the pain in my hands than the reality of his absence.
“Drink the tea while it’s hot, Sutton. You look exhausted.”
I stared at the final column on the screen. The profit margins were solid. We had enough in the emergency fund to cover my maternity leave. That was the only reality I cared about. I had a baby to protect, and the farm’s financial security was the only thing keeping us safe.
“Thank you, Ruby,” I said. “I just want to finalize these quarterly ledgers tonight so we don’t have to stress about the wholesale margins going into the winter.”
I took a sip of the chamomile tea, then set the cup down and pulled a new stack of loose invoices toward my laptop. I tapped them into a neat pile.
“The numbers can wait until tomorrow morning,” Ruby said. “I’m going to step out and lock the main gates for the night, and then we are sitting down to eat.”
Ruby grabbed her coat off the hook by the mudroom door. She pulled it on, but she didn’t reach for the doorknob. She leaned her shoulder against the frame, watching me from across the room.
I kept my eyes on the paperwork, my fingers compulsively squaring the already perfect stack of invoices.
“You’ve been aggressively staring at that screen for an hour, Sutton,” Ruby said. “You can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to me. If you need to cry because he left, you are allowed to cry.”
My fingers stopped moving across the paper. The suggestion hung in the warm air above the stove, thick with misplaced pity. I didn’t want her sympathy. I didn’t want anyone looking at me like a tragic casualty of the Los Angeles PR machine.
I grabbed the cover of the ledger and flipped it shut. It hit the table with a loud slap.
“I am not going to waste a single tear on a man who chose a showmance over his own child, Ruby,” I said, my voice steady. “I have a baby to support, and grieving over Hayes Gallagher isn’t going to pay for the winter fertilizer.”
Ruby stared at me for a long moment. She zipped her coat up to her chin.
“Fair enough,” she said. “But don’t let his cowardice turn you cold. I’ll be back in five minutes, so try to rest your eyes for a second while I’m gone.”
She pushed the back door open. A sharp gust of coastal wind rushed into the kitchen, carrying the scent of damp soil and sea salt. The wind cut right through my cardigan. The door swung shut behind her, the latch dropping into place.
The sudden silence in the kitchen rang in my ears. Without the scrape of the wooden spoon or the hum of Ruby’s voice, the room felt hollow. I reached for the tea, wrapping both hands around the cup to absorb the lingering heat.
I took a slow sip. I expected Hayes to fight before he left. I expected him to push back against Eleanor’s demands, or at least argue his case before climbing into the back of her SUV. But the fact that he folded after a single harsh conversation confirmed every fear I had.
He was built for red carpets. He wasn’t built for the unglamorous realities of an actual life.
I set the cup down and picked up the top invoice from the pile. I stared at the printed supplier name. I refused to let his cowardice break me. I had created this sanctuary from scratch, and I was going to protect it.
You made your decision, Hayes. I made mine, and I know it was right.
The calm of the kitchen shattered when the back door blew open. The door hit the wall with a deafening crack. A blast of freezing air swept over the floor, instantly chilling the room.
My hands froze, suspended above the keys.
Ruby stood in the doorway, panting. The screen of her smartphone cast a bright blue glow across her face in the dim mudroom. She never moved with this kind of chaotic urgency unless an animal was down or a storm was tearing the roof off one of the sheds.
“Ruby, what’s wrong?” I asked, pushing my chair back from the table. “Did a heater blow in the greenhouse?”
She didn’t answer right away. She kicked her muddy boots off onto the floor mat, letting them hit the baseboards. She rushed past the stove, her eyes darting across the counters.
“Forget the farm,” she said, waving the phone in the air. “Where is the remote for this thing?”
“It’s right there next to the sink,” I said. “What are you doing?”
She reached across the butcher block and snatched the remote. In her frantic turn, her forearm clipped the edge of the table. The invoices I had just organized slid off the table. The papers scattered across the floor, fanning out in a messy white pool near my chair.
I didn’t bend down to pick them up. I just stared at her, gripping the edge of my seat and bracing myself for whatever emergency required the small television.
Ruby pointed the remote at the screen. The television flared to life with a blaring burst of static, which quickly gave way to the roaring applause of a massive studio audience.
“My phone just buzzed with a schedule alert,” Ruby said, keeping her eyes locked on the screen. “I set a tracker for him weeks ago, and his award category is broadcasting live right now. You need to look at the television.”
A cold spike of dread hit my stomach.
“Ruby, what is going on?” I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper. “A tracker for Hayes?”
She turned up the volume, drowning out the whistle of the wind blowing through the open back door.
“Yes! Your idiot husband is walking out on stage in Los Angeles.”
I shoved my chair backward. The chair scraped against the linoleum before tipping over and hitting the floor with a loud clatter. I ignored it.
I stepped closer to the small television. I gripped the edge of the counter until my joints ached. The glaring light of the screen illuminated the dark kitchen.
Hayes was standing on the main stage of the Silver Screen Guild Awards.
He wore a black tuxedo, the bright stage lights illuminating his familiar face. The crowd’s applause crackled from the kitchen TV. Blaire was standing next to him, reaching for the silver trophy and moving toward the podium microphone.
Then, Hayes moved.
He didn’t just step to the side. He shifted his weight, putting his broad shoulders directly between Blaire and the microphone stand, cutting her off entirely. A confused murmur rippled through the auditorium, echoing faintly under the boom of his voice as he leaned into the mic.
“I am not accepting this award today because the chemistry you are applauding is a manufactured lie.” His voice rang out, distorted and loud through our small kitchen speakers. “For the last three years, I have been hiding my incredible, beautiful wife from the world.”
I froze, staring at the bright screen, entirely unable to look away. He was doing it. He was actually doing it. He was tearing down the illusion in front of ten million people.
“I convinced myself I was keeping her invisible to protect her from the media,” he continued, his tone devoid of any polished charm. “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 television speakers hummed beneath the dead silence of the stunned auditorium. He didn’t stop there. He looked directly at the studio executives in the front row and announced his immediate breach of contract, walking away from his entire career.
And then, he mentioned me. He stated that I had found peace, and he refused to drag the paparazzi to my doorstep. He ended his speech without ever saying my name. He claimed me, but he fiercely protected my privacy, ensuring the media had no map to this farm.
“We seem to be having a slight disruption on the main stage, ladies and gentlemen,” the panicked television announcer broke in. “We are going to cut to a commercial break—”
I leaned closer to the monitor, transfixed by the broadcast.
“I thought he was running away,” I whispered as the reality settled in. “Choosing them again. But he went back to the city to do this on live television in front of the industry.”
Ruby didn’t lower the remote. She kept her eyes locked on the feed playing out on the screen.