Chapter 10
Chapter ten
Cam
Istep into Lila’s penthouse and immediately feel out of place.
The space isn’t just big. It’s curated. Soft lighting glows from places I don’t recognize. The skyline outside the windows looks unreal, like the city is posing for her.
Even the air smells high-end.
I shift the duffel bag on my shoulder and suddenly become painfully aware of it. Of myself. The scuffed sneakers. The cotton T-shirt. I feel like I walked into a jewelry store carrying a gym bag.
Lila walks ahead of me, quiet and precise. Her steps are careful, like she’s learned how to move without drawing attention in her own home. Her shoulders are tight. She doesn’t look back once.
Her assistant and stylist linger for a moment, gathering stray items from the living room. They give me polite nods that feel like apologies. Then they disappear quickly, as if awkwardness is contagious and they don’t want to be near it when it fully settles.
The space feels different once they’re gone.
Heavier.
Lila stops near a massive sectional and smooths a throw pillow that does not need smoothing. Then she does it again, slower this time. Buying herself a second.
I hover near the entryway because I don’t know where I’m allowed to exist. Sitting feels invasive. Standing feels like I’m in the way.
She looks around the room like she’s touring it for the first time. Not proud. Not comfortable. Distant. Like she’s unsure whether this place still belongs to her now that I’m in it.
I remind myself why I'm here.
“You can put your bag there,” she says finally, gesturing vaguely toward a console table that probably costs more than my truck.
“Right,” I say. “I’ll try not to dent the art.”
The words are out before I can stop them.
For a split second, I think I’ve messed up. Then she lets out a quick, surprised sound that might be a laugh. It’s small. Unpracticed. Like it escaped before she could catch it.
She nods toward the hallway. “I’ll show you around.”
Her voice is steady, but I hear the strain under it now that I’m listening for it.
I follow her down the hall, quieter than before. More aware of how much space I take up.
This isn’t just a penthouse. It’s her world.
And now I’m in it.
She gives me the tour like she’s reading off a checklist.
“Kitchen’s here. You are welcome to the food that's here. And if you need something, let Sasha know. She'll get it for you,” she says, already moving. “Studio space is soundproofed. Security panels are in the hall and the master wing.”
She doesn’t look back as she walks, and I get the sense she’s afraid if she does, she’ll trip over whatever this is between us.
Her hands are clasped in front of her, fingers twisting slightly like she’s holding herself together from the inside.
I follow at a careful distance, trying not to feel like a very large, very human wrecking ball loose in a museum.
The place is beautiful. Quiet. Like a stock photo.
We pass a recording nook tucked into one corner. A whiteboard hangs on the wall, half-filled with lyrics and scribbles. Some words are crossed out. Some circled. One line has three exclamation points.
I look away quickly, feeling like I'm intruding.
A stack of vinyl leans against a console. Old stuff. New stuff. A strange mix that feels personal instead of staged. A velvet throw drapes over the back of a chair that looks actually used.
Human. Fragile. I feel like I should be wearing gloves.
She keeps moving, pointing out practical details. Where the panic buttons are. Which windows are reinforced. How the lights can be dimmed remotely if she doesn’t want to be visible from outside.
She stops in front of a door at the end of the hall and pushes it open.
“This is yours,” she says quietly.
The guest room is clean to the point of emptiness. Neutral bedding. Bare walls. Drawers that haven’t been opened. It looks like a hotel room that never quite became real.
“Security says it’s the safest layout,” she adds. “Closest to my door.”
She doesn’t explain further, but she doesn’t need to.
Safest means close enough to hear if something goes wrong.
I nod once. “Works for me.”
It’s the truth. I’ve slept in worse places for less important reasons.
Her shoulders curl inward slightly, like she’s bracing for something that doesn’t come. She stays by the door, not stepping fully into the room, not retreating either.
Caught in the middle.
I want to say something that makes this easier. Something reassuring. Something normal.
Instead, I ask, “Is there anything I should know? About the space.”
She hesitates.
“Just… don’t move things,” she says. “If something’s out of place, it messes with the system.”
I hear the second meaning in that sentence.
I won’t touch what keeps you steady.
“Got it,” I say. “No redecorating.”
That earns me another almost-smile. Gone as quickly as it appears.
She turns away, and for a second I think the tour is over. Then a door down the hall opens, and Manny steps out, tablet in hand, expression serious in the way that means the real conversation is about to start.
“Camden,” he says. “We need to talk.”
Lila freezes.
I straighten without thinking.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m listening.”
Manny doesn’t waste time.
He steps into the hallway like he owns it, tablet tucked under his arm, jaw set in a way I recognize immediately. This isn’t a warning. It’s a briefing.
He glances at Lila. “You need the full picture.”
She doesn’t move. She hovers near the guest room door, arms wrapped around herself, like she’s bracing for impact. Not leaving. Not staying. Caught in that in-between space where bad news usually lands.
“Go ahead,” she says softly.
“For the next three months,” Manny goes on, “she’s in Firth City. Fixed residency. Same routes. Same buildings. Predictable.”
“Fans know her schedule better than my team does,” he says. “And that includes people who don’t understand where admiration ends and entitlement begins.”
“Your presence alone reduces risk by almost half,” Manny adds. “People hesitate. Fans recalibrate. Opportunists back off.”
I take a slow breath.
Manny pulls up a tablet, and starts explaining specifics. Layout. What his team covers, and expectations for me.
I signed up for optics. For PR. For survival.
But I guess I knew I was also signing up to be the thing standing between her and whatever might come through the door.
Lila’s breath hitches. I hear it. Feel it.
I turn toward her without thinking. She’s staring at the wall like it’s the only thing holding her upright.
“This isn’t your fault,” I say, low.
She shakes her head slightly. “Feels like it.”
I don’t argue. I know that feeling too well.
Manny finishes the briefing with a few more details. Routes. Protocols. What to do if something feels off. The words blur together, but the message is clear.
When Manny finally leaves, the penthouse goes quiet in a way that feels unnatural. Too still. Like the air itself is waiting.
I didn’t marry a pop star.
I married a situation.
And it's my job to hold the line for her.
***
I move down the hallway instead, quiet and deliberate, checking the things Manny pointed out. Window sensors. Lock indicators. Panels that glow soft green when everything is secure.
Everything says safe.
My gut says otherwise.
I’m halfway toward the master suite when I hear a sound.
Not words.
Not a scream.
It’s broken. Small. Like something cracking under pressure.
I stop so fast my foot actually skids on the floor.
For a second, I tell myself I imagined it. That I’m wired tight after the briefing and seeing threats in shadows.
Then it comes again.
A soft, hitching breath.
I know that sound.
I edge closer, every instinct screaming that I’m crossing a line I’m not supposed to cross.
Her door is ajar. Just a few inches.
I shouldn’t look.
I do anyway.
Lila is sitting on the edge of her bed, shoulders shaking. Her hands are pressed over her face like she’s trying to hold herself together physically, afraid she might spill apart if she lets go.
No makeup. No sparkle. No performance.
Just a woman who looks exhausted in a way sleep doesn’t fix.
My chest tightens so abruptly it almost knocks the air out of me.
I’m the guy assigned to the perimeter, not the one invited inside the walls. This feels like trespassing on something sacred.
I should leave.
I don’t.
Instead, I knock lightly on the doorframe. Not loud enough to startle her. Just enough to announce myself.
“Lila.”
She flinches hard, sucking in a breath as her hands drop away from her face. Her eyes are red. Wet. She swipes at them quickly, like that might undo what I’ve already seen.
“I’m sorry,” she says immediately, voice cracked. “I didn’t mean for you to—this is weird. I’m fine. It’s just been a long day.”
I stay where I am, hands loose at my sides, careful not to crowd her. “You don’t have to apologize,” I say. “It has been a long day.”
She lets out a shaky breath. “There were threats. And meetings. And now we’re married, which still feels like a sentence I borrowed from someone else’s life.” She laughs weakly. “This is not how I imagined my wedding day.”
Something sharp twists in my gut.
I keep my voice low, steady. “Yeah. Mine involved fewer NDAs.”
That earns me a fragile huff of laughter. It fades quickly, but it’s there.
She wipes her cheeks again and stares at her hands. “I hate that you saw that.”
“It's OK. You can trust me, Lila,” I say.
The words surprise me as soon as they’re out, but I don’t take them back.
She looks up at me then, really looks at me, and there’s so much emotion in her eyes it almost hurts to meet it.
“I don’t want to be scared all the time,” she says quietly. “Would you—” She stops, swallows. “Would you stay in my room tonight? On the couch. I just… I don’t want to be alone.”
“I know,” I say. And I do.
She searches my face, like she’s checking for cracks. For exaggeration. For something she can’t afford to believe.
“That's what I'm for,” I add.
Something in her expression shifts. Not relief. Not hope.
Trust’s quieter cousin.
She swallows and nods once.
I sit on the couch as she climbs into bed.
She turns onto her side, facing away from me. The bedside lamp clicks off, leaving the room washed in soft city light leaking through the curtains.
For a few seconds, neither of us moves.
Then her voice drifts back to me, quiet and careful. “Cam?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you.”
“Welcome.”
Her breathing evens out slowly. It settles, inch by inch.
I sit on the edge of the couch for a moment, listening. Making sure.
When I finally lie back, the couch creaks softly under my weight. I freeze, waiting to see if it wakes her. It doesn’t.
The city hums outside. The lights stay on low.
She sleeps.
This isn’t just a contract obligation for me anymore.
Not tonight.