Chapter 15
Chapter fifteen
Lila
Istep out of the sleek black SUV already knowing how this is supposed to go.
Invited press. Museum donors. Arts reporters with sensible shoes and strong opinions about lighting.
Cameras click softly. No flashes. Polite. Like they’re afraid of startling the art.
I exhale.
No feral energy. No one crouched behind a shrub with a telephoto lens and unresolved childhood issues.
ERS called this a soft debut. A gentle nudge toward a narrative we both need. Lila Hart and Camden Drake: grounded. Unexpected. Tasteful.
Like a wine pairing no one asked for but everyone will insist makes sense.
Everything has been arranged.
The press. The timing. Possibly the weather.
I smooth my hand down the sleeve of my deep-blue coat and remind myself that I am very good at this. I’ve walked red carpets in six-inch heels. I’ve sung live on international television while my in-ear monitor gave me static.
I can absolutely handle a museum entrance.
Cam is beside me as we head toward the glass doors. Our shoulders don’t touch, but he’s close enough that I can feel his warmth through his coat. Steady. Contained. Like a quiet engine that doesn’t need revving.
It’s distracting.
ERS suggested a kiss today. Casual. Natural. Very don’t think about it too much or you’ll combust.
The thought skitters through my brain and hides behind my ribs. I do not invite it to elaborate.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice another couple being discreetly ushered toward a different wing. A tall, broody man in a charcoal coat, all sharp angles and nerves, followed by a woman clutching a sketchbook like it’s a flotation device.
I recognize them from ERS. Apparently today is a group project.
Cam still hasn’t touched me. No arm around my waist. No hand at my back. I’d half expected him to overcorrect—to go stiff, hyper-aware, like a man trying very hard not to be perceived incorrectly.
Instead, he just walks.
Matches my pace without comment. Adjusts his stride when mine shortens. Close enough to be there. Far enough to give me air.
It’s weirdly soothing. Like walking beside a really calm guard dog who hasn’t decided if anyone needs biting yet.
He isn’t looking at the cameras. He isn’t scanning the crowd. He looks relaxed. Present. Like this is just a place we’re going, not a moment being documented for future dissection.
Inside, the museum swallows sound.
Marble floors echo softly underfoot. Light pools where it’s meant to, gentle and deliberate, like the building is actively trying not to startle anyone. The air smells faintly of stone and expensive cologne and wine that’s been poured too early in the day.
It feels civilized.
The first exhibit is a collection of historical paintings. Landscapes. Portraits. Things that have survived wars and weather and the invention of Instagram. Quiet art. Patient art. Art that isn’t trying to sell me anything.
People drift by with pamphlets and stemless wine glasses, murmuring in respectful tones. A few heads turn when they recognize me. A few eyebrows lift. But nobody rushes. Nobody lunges. Nobody decides this is the moment to shout their feelings at my face.
My nerves lower half an inch.
I didn’t realize they were that high.
Near a donor display, I catch sight of a sharply dressed man leaning down to whisper something to a woman in a bedazzled hoodie. She clutches her drink defensively and whisper-shouts back, “I won the lottery, I never attended finishing school—stop talking to me like I know museum etiquette.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
Cam doesn’t comment. He just keeps pace beside me, unbothered, like navigating slightly absurd social situations is a normal Tuesday activity.
He stays close. Not pressed against me. Not hovering. Just… positioned.
I notice it when a small group approaches from our left and Cam shifts half a step, casually placing himself between me and the oncoming bodies like it’s muscle memory. When someone trails too closely behind us, he adjusts again, just enough that they pass him first.
It isn’t obvious.
It isn’t showy.
It’s instinct.
I tell myself I don’t need this. I have security. I have protocols. I have panic responses with clinical names and laminated emergency plans.
Still.
My breathing stays even.
We pause in front of a painting—something old and serious and very committed to being brown. Cam tilts his head slightly.
“Huh,” he murmurs. “That guy looks like he hasn’t trusted anyone since 1620.”
I snort before I can stop myself.
He glances at me, the corner of his mouth lifting. Not a grin. Just a soft acknowledgment, like he’s pleased he could make me laugh.
“Sorry,” I say automatically. “I’m not very good at pretending to be museum-serious.”
“I think you’re doing great,” he says. “You haven’t even said ‘haunting’ yet.”
“That’s because I’m saving it for something that really earns it.”
He hums quietly, approving, and we move on.
Every now and then he makes a comment—nothing profound. Observations. Gentle jokes. A note about brushstrokes. A remark about how uncomfortable one of the painted collars looks.
His voice stays low. Warm. Unintrusive.
It slides under my skin in a way I don’t expect.
I’m used to people filling space. Talking loud. Performing interest. Trying to impress me or themselves or whoever they think is watching.
Cam does none of that.
He doesn’t try to steer the conversation. He doesn’t try to impress me with facts or charm or carefully curated mystery. He just exists next to me. Present. Attentive. Uncomplicated.
Steady.
That word again.
I hate how much I like it.
We drift from one room to the next, and somewhere along the way I realize the tight knot that’s lived under my ribs for the last few years has loosened. Not disappeared. Just eased. Like someone turned the volume down without announcing it.
I glance at Cam, then away again before he can catch me doing it.
This is supposed to be neutral ground.
Safe. Controlled. Temporary.
I remind myself of that as we move deeper into the museum, surrounded by art that has outlasted empires.
And I try very hard not to wonder what it would feel like if this—this quiet, unremarkable closeness—wasn’t part of a plan at all.
We step out of the second room. Ahead, near the interactive exhibit with the touchscreen maps and aggressive font, a small cluster of people linger. Like they are waiting.
Phones are already up.
Not paparazzi. Not technically. No long lenses. No shouted credentials. Just the modern, slippery cousin of it—people with phones held chest-high, thumbs hovering, eyes too sharp.
Museum staff murmurs something polite. Gestures toward another wing. Smiles with their mouths but not their eyes.
The group doesn’t move.
My skin prickles.
This is the part I hate. The in-between. When no one has crossed a line yet, but everyone’s standing right on the edge of it, toes curling over.
One of them recognizes me fully and brightens, like they’ve just won a prize.
“Lila!” he calls, too loud for the space. “Over here!”
My spine goes rigid.
I paste on my soft smile. The one that’s supposed to say approachable but busy, kind but not available for follow-up questions.
Years of practice snap into place.
Another phone lifts.
“Can we get a picture with you and your boyfriend?”
My breath hitches before I can stop it. Not panic. Not yet. Just that sharp, involuntary intake that tightens my ribs like someone’s cinched a corset around them.
I tell myself to relax.
This is expected. This is literally why we’re here.
I nod once, shallow and controlled, like maybe that’s enough of an answer.
Another voice cuts in, louder. Hungrier.
“Cam! Look this way! Put your arm around her!”
A few people laugh. Encouraging. Like they’re directing a rom-com instead of standing in a museum where silence is supposed to be sacred.
My pulse spikes.
This is it, then.
The moment ERS flagged. The casual intimacy checkpoint. The suggested kiss with bullet points and contingencies.
I feel it click into place in my head with a strange sense of detachment, like I’m watching myself from the outside.
Okay. Fine. I can do this.
I’ve smiled through worse. This is nothing. A peck. A headline. A harmless gesture.
I shift my weight, preparing my face, my posture, my everything.
And then Cam moves.
He doesn’t grab me or pull me in like this is some pre-rehearsed move. He turns to me asking with his eyes if this is OK. Then he waits.
Just long enough for me to nod.
It’s barely a nod. More like my body remembering how to say yes before my brain can overthink it. A quiet tremor of consent.
Only then does he touch me.
One hand comes up to my jaw, warm and steady, fingers brushing my hairline like he’s aware of every camera and still refuses to treat me like an object they get to consume. The other settles at my waist, light pressure, anchoring instead of claiming.
He angles his body without thinking, turning us so his back takes the brunt of the phones. A shield made of muscle and calm intention.
The crowd leans in.
“Just breathe,” he murmurs, so low it barely reaches me.
I try.
Then he dips his head and kisses me.
It’s not meant to be dramatic. No sweeping motion. No cinematic linger. Just enough to satisfy the lenses pointed at us.
But the second our lips meet—
Everything detonates.
My breath catches hard, like my lungs forgot their job. Electricity shoots straight down my spine, sharp and undeniable, my pulse slamming so fast it feels like it might bruise from the inside.
This is not a press kiss.
This is not optics.
This is not the harmless little performance ERS outlined in bullet points and disclaimers.
This is something else.
Something dangerous.
Something that feels like it bypassed every rule I’ve ever built to keep myself intact.
My hands move without permission, fingers curling into the lapels of his coat like my body already knows where it wants to hold on. I tilt toward him, instinctive, automatic, like gravity just rewrote itself.
For half a heartbeat, the world disappears.
No cameras. No donors. No headlines waiting to be written.
Just warmth. Steadiness. The quiet shock of realizing how right this feels in a way it absolutely shouldn’t.
Then he pulls back.
Clean. Controlled. Professional.
The moment snaps back into place.
The phones lower. The murmurs swell. Museum staff exhales.
The cameras are satisfied.
I am not.
My lips tingle. My heart keeps racing, traitorous and loud. I can feel where his hand was even after it’s gone, like my skin hasn’t caught up yet.
Cam stays close, just enough that I don’t wobble, his expression calm and unreadable to anyone watching.
But when his eyes meet mine—
There’s something steady and warm there. Exciting and terrifying at the same time.
***
Museum staff moves fast once the cameras get what they want.
Polite smiles. Soft redirection. A practiced sweep that ushers the over-eager phones away like crumbs off a linen tablecloth.
Cam’s hand settles at the small of my back.
I lean into it without realizing I’m doing it, my body still a half-second behind my brain. Still buzzing. Still reeling. Like I stepped off a moving sidewalk and my balance hasn’t caught up yet.
He guides me toward a quiet alcove tucked between two galleries. Stone walls. Soft light. A bench no one’s sitting on. The noise fades to a low museum hum—footsteps, murmured voices, the faint clink of wine glasses.
The air feels charged.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
His voice is low. Steady. The same voice he used earlier when the world got too close.
I nod automatically. I shouldn’t have.
Because I’m not fine.
It’s not because I’m scared. I’m not overwhelmed by attention or crowds or phones pointed at my face.
But my heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my fingertips.
And it has nothing to do with the press.
It’s him.
The kiss that was supposed to be nothing.
The way his hand felt at my waist—anchoring instead of claiming. The way he waited for me to say yes without asking out loud. The way he looked at me when he pulled back, like he wasn’t seeing a headline or a role or a job to be done.
Like he was seeing me.
I swallow, forcing a breath that doesn’t want to slow down.
Cam’s hand drops, giving me space immediately, like he’s careful not to take more than I offer. Like he’s learned my tells faster than I’m comfortable with.
“Yeah,” I say, because that’s what I always say. “I’m good.”
He studies my face for half a beat longer than necessary.
I don’t know what he sees.
I only know my pulse refuses to calm, my skin still humming where he touched me, my mouth remembering the exact shape of his.
This was supposed to be easy.
A fake kiss. A clean narrative. A step forward in a plan I agreed to.
Instead, it feels like the ground shifted.
I press a hand to my chest, waiting for the familiar spiral.
It doesn’t come.
Instead, my pulse keeps insisting on something far less convenient.
And I have no idea what to do about it.