Chapter 17
Chapter seventeen
Lila
Iwake up with a tune in my head.
Not a normal tune, either. Not the kind that evaporates the second I open my eyes.
Soft. Warm. Insistent.
It threads through me as I shuffle to the bathroom, half-blind, wrapped in my own sheets like a sad ghost with a skincare routine. The melody follows anyway. It slips into the space between toothbrush strokes. It hums behind my eyes while I stare at my reflection.
I spit, rinse, blink at myself.
The tune does not blink back.
In the kitchen, I make tea on a whim. Kettle on. Mug out. Honey stirred. I even select a “calm” mug, like ceramic can gaslight my nervous system into believing everything is fine.
The melody curls around the steam.
It isn’t one of my hits. It isn’t a half-remembered chorus from the radio. It doesn’t feel like the old drafts that crawl out when I’m stressed—those come with sharp edges and unfinished corners.
This one feels new.
I freeze with the spoon hovering, listening harder than I want to.
The tune rises, dips, softens at the end like it’s exhaling.
I stand there in the quiet penthouse kitchen, tea steaming in my hand, and I can practically see my own neurons in the corner, rubbing their hands together like tiny villains.
Because it’s a new song. Tender and carrying the kind of warmth I usually keep locked in a vault labeled DO NOT OPEN WITHOUT SUPERVISION.
I move faster. If I stay busy, I can outrun my thoughts. That’s how this works. Probably.
I pack my rehearsal bag robotically. In-ears. Vocal spray. Hoodie. Chargers. A snack I will lie about eating.
The melody doesn’t care.
It follows me from room to room like a polite haunting. It slips into the quiet between heartbeats. Repeats the same phrase—rising, falling, softening—like a hand brushing warmth into skin.
Which is not a normal metaphor for my brain to provide at 7:14 a.m., but here we are.
I stop in the hallway and press my forehead lightly to the wall.
“Great,” I mutter. “Now my brain is writing love songs.”
The words land flat, like I’m talking about a plumbing issue. As if love songs aren’t literally my job.
Except this is different.
Because the problem isn’t the melody.
The problem is what comes with it.
Broad shoulders. Steady hands. A voice at my ear telling me to breathe like it’s muscle memory. A calm presence that makes the noise dim around me.
I don’t want to picture Cam in my kitchen again, barefoot, making coffee like a normal person.
I definitely don’t want to admit that my nervous system seems to recognize Camden Drake as a safe place.
A sudden thought enters my head, and I pull out my phone.
I dial ERS.
"Hello, this is Tessa."
I jump right in. "Cam's lawsuit. That woman—she's not just attacking Cam. She's threatening his credibility. His sponsors won't wait for a verdict."
Tessa's voice is hard. "That is why he has you, to rehab his reputation."
"It's not enough. We need to do more. Counter sue. Something."
"Are you serious about this? It will be even more of a headache."
"Yes. I'm sure."
"I'll talk to Noah and put together some options, and get back to you."
"That's good, but the sooner the better."
***
Tessa set up a meeting at ERS for that afternoon. Cam is already there when I arrive. Broad shoulders. Neutral expression. The kind of stillness that means he’s bracing for impact.
Noah and another ERS attorney sit at the table with tablets open, faces carefully unreadable.
No one smiles.
Noah begins laying it out. Clean. Efficient. Clinical.
Rebecca Smoochie’s filing alleges pregnancy. Coercion. Forced termination. Abuse of power. Emotional distress.
False. All of it. Verifiably false.
But lies don’t have to be true to be harmful.
“Even unsubstantiated claims like these,” he says, “can trigger morality clauses. League investigations. Sponsor withdrawals.”
Cam’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t interrupt.
The melody still swimming in my head dips—uneasy now. Minor key.
“We can respond defensively,” the other lawyer says. “Motion to dismiss. Statement of denial. Or—”
I lean forward.
“No.”
The word lands sharper than I expect. The room stills.
Cam turns to look at me, surprised.
“No?” the lawyer repeats carefully.
Cam watches me like he’s trying to figure out where this is coming from.
“If we do that,” I continue, “she controls the timeline. She keeps making noise, keeps forcing responses. She leaks. She implies. She bleeds you slowly.”
The melody steadies. Stronger now.
“We need to counter-sue her,” I say. “Immediately.”
Cam exhales through his nose. “Lila—”
“I know,” I cut in. “You don’t want to escalate. You don’t want this to get uglier.”
I meet his eyes. Hold them.
“It’s already ugly,” I say. “And if you stay quiet, it becomes believable.”
Noah straightens. “A counter-suit would reframe—”
“—the entire narrative,” I finish. “She stops being a victim and starts being a liability.”
Silence stretches.
“She’s not just attacking you,” I add, quieter now. “She’s threatening your career. Your sponsors. Your reputation.” I shake my head.
Cam looks at me for a long beat.
“You’ve thought about this,” he says.
I don’t shrug this time. I don’t deflect.
“I don't know how this works,” I say simply. “But I know people lose everything by waiting too long to fight back.”
And I don't want that to happen to you.
The melody swells — not loud. Certain.
Noah nods. “Defamation. Malicious prosecution. Possibly sanctions.”
Cam studies me. Really looks at me. Something shifts behind his eyes — not gratitude exactly. Something deeper.
He nods once. Sharp. Decisive.
“Okay,” he says.
Just that.
The lawyers move fast after that — filings, timelines, evidence locks. The room turns procedural. Controlled.
But under it all, the melody keeps playing.
Unbothered by my denial.
I close my eyes.
I’ve learned not to argue with a song.