Chapter 18
Chapter eighteen
Cam
Charity events have rules.
You show up polished. You smile for the cameras. You talk about causes instead of conflicts, generosity instead of greed.
Everyone agrees—at least for a few hours—to behave like this room exists outside the mess of the real world.
Tonight’s cause is a children’s trauma recovery foundation. Soft lighting. Linen tablecloths. Crystal glasses. A room full of people who know how to look compassionate without breaking a sweat.
On paper, it’s perfect.
I’m here as Lila’s plus one.
Clean optics. All the positive PR without the messy stuff. Manny walked me through it twice like I was a rookie learning a playbook.
Smile. Walk. Eat. Leave.
We don’t even make it through the doors.
The press has been waiting—clustered just far enough back to pretend they’re respecting boundaries, close enough to pounce the second they clock us. Cameras lift in near-perfect unison. Microphones come up like weapons.
“Cam—any update on the lawsuit?”
“Lila—your ex posted again this morning. Do you want to respond?”
“Is this appearance coordinated?”
“Are you two attending together intentionally?”
I feel Lila’s posture change beside me. Tightening. Shoulders just a fraction higher. Jaw set like she’s bracing for impact.
I slow my stride without thinking, angling my body slightly in front of hers as we keep moving. Shielding her.
“No comments tonight,” I say calmly, eyes forward. “We’re here for the foundation.”
That doesn’t stop them.
“Cam, are you worried about sponsors pulling out?”
“Lila, is this about image rehabilitation?”
Her hand brushes mine—not gripping, just checking. Still here.
Good.
Event staff steps in quickly, practiced and apologetic, ushering us past the press line and into the ballroom. The doors close behind us with a satisfying finality, muffling the noise down to a dull thrum.
Music. Conversation. Clinking glasses. The illusion snaps back into place like it was never threatened.
Lila exhales quietly beside me. Not relief exactly. More like recalibration.
“You okay?” I murmur.
She nods once. “Yeah.”
I know better than to push.
Across from us, two seats are filled — a donor couple murmuring over the program.
The last seat is empty.
I glance at the name card.
Evan Ross — Independent Media.
I don’t say anything. Just hope he's a no show.
Dinner begins.
For the first time since we arrived, no one is looking directly at us.
Lila relaxes into her chair, shoulders finally lowering. She studies the program, then glances at me.
“I used to hate attending fundraisers like this,” she says quietly.
“Let me guess,” I say. “You understand them now.”
She nods. “I can't imagine living through some of the things these kids have to deal with.”
I meet her gaze. “That’s why I said yes to tonight.”
And I mean it.
We talk easily after that — not about scandals, not about strategy. About the foundation. About kids who need quiet places to land. About how loud the world gets when you’re too young to make sense of it.
She laughs at something I say — soft, real.
Her knee brushes mine under the table.
The warmth lingers, subtle and dangerous.
For a moment, it feels like we might actually get the night we were promised.
Then the empty chair fills.
Evan Ross slides into the seat with an apologetic smile. “Sorry I’m late. Work.”
His eyes flick between us, sharp and curious.
The bubble pops.
“Lovely event,” he says casually. “I actually pitched a piece on this foundation last year.”
Lila’s posture tightens again. Controlled. Polished.
I set my fork down.
“Enjoying the meal?” he asks, already reaching for his notebook.
“We were,” I say evenly.
He smiles. “I won’t take much of your time.”
That’s a lie.
“Lila,” he continues, “do you think public support like this helps redirect attention from—”
I stand.
Lila looks up at me, surprised.
“We’re stepping out,” I say calmly.
Her eyes search mine for half a second.
Then she trusts me.
Her hand slides into mine as we leave the table. I don’t look back. I don’t give him the satisfaction.
An event staffer intercepts us near the doors. “Is everything alright?”
“Yes,” I say. “We just need a place with no press.”
She nods immediately and leads us through a side corridor and out onto a private balcony.
The night air hits us clean and cold.
The doors close.
Silence.
Lila releases my hand and pulls out her phone, fingers already texting Manny to get us out of here.
She pockets it and exhales, resting her hands on the railing.
“I hate that they always find a way in,” she says quietly.
I stay close, but not crowding.
“They don’t get to ruin everything,” I say.
She glances back at me, something soft and complicated in her eyes.
Footsteps echo faintly behind the doors.
Manny will get us out.
But for now, we’re alone.
Whatever she’s been holding in through that entire room is about to break open.
She grips the railing like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.
The city spreads out below us, indifferent and glittering. The air is cold enough to bite. Good. Maybe it’ll burn some of this off.
“I swear,” she says, spinning away from the view, words already tripping over each other, “every time I think we’ve handled one rumor, ten more crawl out of whatever sewer they live in.”
She starts pacing. Fast. Tight turns. Like she’s wound too hard.
“They don’t care what’s true,” she goes on, hands slicing the air. “They don’t care what I say. They just rewrite me.”
I stay near the door. I’ve learned that crowding her doesn't help.
“It's basically scandal fanfiction,” she snaps, letting out a humorless laugh. “That’s what it is. With real consequences.”
I huff quietly. “I’d worry about it less if they at least got the canon right.”
She wheels on me suddenly, fire in her eyes. Real fire. Not the polished kind.
“And why do they keep asking you about threats?” she demands. “As if your entire career should hinge on a stranger with a microphone and a victim complex.”
“Because nuance doesn’t trend,” I say. “Outrage does.”
She doesn’t slow.
“And my ex,” she says, voice rising, “gets to reinvent himself every time he starts fading online. Victim. Survivor. Truth-teller."
"You should tell him to cut that out."
"Meanwhile I’m expected to smile through it like I’m grateful for the attention.”
Her hands fly up.
“Why is my value always measured by how pretty I look while I’m hurting?”
She stops.
Just stops.
The words hang there, raw and unfinished.
Her chest rises and falls. Fast. Her eyes are bright.
“I am,” she says, quieter now, like the anger cracked open something underneath it, “so tired of being on display.”
She laughs once, shaky. “I can’t—” Her voice falters. “I just can’t do it all the time.”
I push off the door slowly. No rush. No sudden moves.
She notices me move. Her gaze flicks to me, guarded out of habit, not fear.
I take a step closer. Then another.
She doesn’t back away.
Up close, I can see the fine tremor in her hands. The way she’s holding herself together through sheer force of will. I’ve worn that same armor. Different battles. Same weight.
“You don’t have to,” I say quietly.
Her breath stutters.
“Not with me.”
The words feel dangerous the second they leave my mouth. Not because they’re untrue.
Because they are.
She looks up at me then. Like she’s checking for the catch. The angle. The hidden camera.
There isn’t one.
The space between us hums. Tight. Electric. Fragile.
I lift my hand before I can talk myself out of it.
Slow. Careful. An offering, not a claim.
I stop right in front of her.
Close enough to feel the warmth of her breath. Close enough that stepping away would feel like a choice, not an accident.
She looks up at me, eyes still bright, still fierce, but softened now by something that looks a lot like hope and scares me more than the press ever has.
Her lips part. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t joke it away.
I lift my hand.
I give her time to stop me.
She doesn’t.
I tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, my knuckles barely grazing her temple. The touch is so light it almost doesn’t count. Almost.
She stills.
Her eyes flutter closed for half a second, and the effect on me is immediate and brutal. My heart slams into my ribs like it wants out.
I’ve kissed women before. Without thinking. Without reverence.
This feels different. Slower. Like handling something breakable that somehow trusts me not to drop it.
“I’ve never been good at pretending,” I murmur, more to myself than to her. “So I need to ask.”
Her eyes open again. Dark. Steady. Locked on mine.
I let my thumb brush her cheekbone. Barely there.
“What would be considered breaking the intimacy clause again?”
A breathy laugh slips out of her, surprised and shaky. “We’re not supposed to engage in unscripted physical affection,” she says softly, “unless mutually agreed upon and documented in an update to the contract.”
“Right.”
I keep my voice even. Like this is just curiosity. Like my pulse isn’t roaring in my ears.
“Is this allowed?”
I trace the smallest arc along her cheek.
Her breath hitches.
“Yes,” she whispers.
My thumb drifts lower. Along the soft line of her jaw.
She sways toward me before she catches herself. Her hands curl into fists at her sides.
I lean in then. Slowly. Slowly enough that she could turn away.
Instead, she tilts her face up.
I press a kiss to her cheek. Just the corner. Barely pressure. Barely contact.
Her whole body shivers.
I pull back an inch. Watch her.
“How about that?”
Her hands come up and fist in the front of my shirt, like she needs the anchor.
“Yes,” she breathes.
But her eyes are no longer guarded.
They’re asking.
She rises onto her toes before I finish my next breath.
Her mouth finds mine with a quiet urgency that knocks every careful thought straight out of my head. The kiss isn’t reckless. It isn’t sloppy or wild.
It’s hungry in a restrained way. Like she’s been starving for weeks.
I go still for half a heartbeat. Long enough to register the softness. The trust. The way she fits against me like she already knows where she belongs.
Then my hands move to her waist.
I return the kiss slowly, deliberately, like I’m trying to memorize the feeling instead of rush through it. Her lips part with a soft sound that goes straight through me. Her fingers twist tighter in my shirt, pulling me closer, and I let myself follow.
The balcony disappears.
So does the building. The city. The clauses. The contracts. Every carefully negotiated rule we’ve been living inside.
There’s only her.
The warmth of her mouth. The faint tremble in her hands. The way she melts into me like she’s been waiting for permission to rest.
She tastes like peppermint and nerves.
I deepen the kiss without thinking, still careful, still slow, but no longer pretending this is theoretical. She exhales against my mouth, a sound so quiet and undone it almost hurts to hear.
When she pulls back, it’s just enough to breathe.
Her eyes are wide. Bright. Unhidden.
“That—” she whispers, swallowing. “That definitely broke the clause.”
A laugh rumbles out of me before I can stop it. Low. Rough.
“Yeah,” I say. “Pretty sure.”
Her hands don’t let go of my shirt.
“Do you think,” she asks, voice barely steady, “we’ll be in trouble?”
“Possibly.”
Silence settles between us. Charged. Crackling. Alive.
Then her chin lifts. Just a little. Brave. Terrified. Beautiful.
“Do you want to do it again?”
I don’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
I kiss her again. Deeper this time. Fuller. A kiss that admits everything we haven’t said yet. That I want this. That I want her. That I’m already in more trouble than any contract can cover.
The door opens just enough for Manny’s head to appear.
His eyes flick between us, sharp and assessing.
“Give us one minute,” I say.
“You've got about thirty seconds.”
The door closes.
I bring Lila close again, more carefully this time.
Her hands are still fisted in my shirt. She seems to realize it at the same time I do. Her fingers loosen, then hover awkwardly between us like she’s not sure where they’re allowed to land.
“Sorry,” she murmurs.
“Don’t be,” I say.
We stand there for a beat, breathing the same air, neither of us moving.
The door opens again.
I turn, “She’s fine,” I say automatically. “She’s with me. I’m just kissing my wife.”
But it's not only Manny in the doorway.
Evan Ross stands just behind Manny. His notebook in hand, eyebrows lifting a fraction too slowly.
Lila and I step apart.
“That’s… interesting,” Evan says quietly.
The weight of my mistake lands heavy.
Irrevocable.
Evan steps aside.
Behind him, voices rise. Too many. Too fast.
Manny swears under his breath as cameras start to appear over shoulders, microphones lifting like reflexes.
I feel Lila’s hand tighten at my side. Not pulling away.
Gripping.
Good.
I keep my arm around her. Solid. Intentional. Like this is exactly where it belongs.
“Cam,” Manny says under his breath, tight and urgent, “we need to move. Now.”
Cameras start firing again. Rapid. Frenzied.
“Are you married?”
“When did this happen?”
“Is this related to the lawsuit?”
“Lila, can you confirm—”
I don’t answer.
I lean toward Lila, forehead close to hers. “You’re safe,” I murmur. “I’ve got you.”
Her fingers curl into my jacket.
Then Manny steps in, security surges forward.
As we move, someone shouts, “Is this a cover story?”
I don’t break stride.
I glance back just once. Let them see my face. Calm. Unapologetic.
“No,” I say clearly. “It’s my life.”
The SUV doors slam shut behind us, cutting off the noise like a blade.