Chapter 19
Chapter nineteen
Lila
Iwake to my phone vibrating itself toward the edge of the nightstand like it’s trying to escape. Notifications stacked on notifications. Missed calls. Texts from numbers I don’t have saved.
I don’t open anything yet.
I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, letting the hum of the city seep in through the windows. Letting the reality catch up to what my body already knows.
Cam called me his wife.
Out loud. In front of witnesses. In front of a man whose job is to notice things and make them go viral.
Of course this is happening.
I sit up and finally look.
My name trends in three categories at once.
Music. Marriage. Manipulation.
I close the app before my pulse can climb too high.
The penthouse is already awake by the time I step into the living room. Manny is pacing. Sasha is on a call, voice tight but measured. Someone has turned the coffee machine on.
Everyone looks at me when I enter.
But there is no Cam.
His jacket isn't slung over a chair. His coffee cup isn't on the counter.
I register it and keep moving, knowing my team is here for a reason.
“Okay,” I say, sitting down slowly. “Talk to me.”
Sasha doesn’t sugarcoat. She never does. “The marriage rumor is everywhere. People are split between romantic and furious.”
“Furious?” I ask.
She tilts her screen toward me. A post from my ex—already climbing.
My stomach drops.
“He posted ten minutes after the first headline,” Sasha continues. “He’s implying you married Cam to distract from ‘the truth.’”
Of course he is.
Manny turns to me. “We can get statements out. ERS is already drafting language.”
“No,” I say.
Both of them pause.
I pick up the tablet and scroll through the comments, the speculation, the way people dissect my life like it’s a puzzle they’re entitled to finish.
“I’m done responding to him,” I say quietly. “Like Cam said, I need to tell him to stop.”
“A cease and desist?” Sasha asks.
I look up.
“Yes,” I say. Firmer now. “That.”
Manny exhales slowly. “Once we send it, he’ll escalate before he complies.”
“Possibly,” I say. “But he escalates anyway. At least this way, it’s documented.”
There’s a beat. Then Sasha nods, already moving. “I’ll loop legal.”
I follow her to the dining table. Soon it's full of papers and laptops.
Legal language fills the screen. Cold. Precise. Powerful.
Sasha types as I dictate.
This isn’t about revenge.
It’s about boundaries.
When we finish, I sit back, oddly calm. Like something in me finally stood up straight.
I reach for my phone on instinct and light up the screen. There’s still nothing from Cam.
I lock it again before I can stare too long.
“Cam should know,” I say. “Before this goes out.”
Sasha nods. “He will.”
***
Cam's been gone all day.
I move through the penthouse like I’m retracing steps. Kitchen first. Then the living room. Then the small balcony he likes to use in the afternoons.
Empty.
The quiet has shifted. It’s no longer neutral. It’s pointed.
Manny is on a call near the entry, voice low and clipped. He looks up when he sees me and gives a nod that’s meant to be reassuring.
“Do you know where Cam is today?” I ask lightly.
“Yeah,” he says. “Early meetings at the stadium. Then his agent pulled him into a last-minute thing.”
Of course.
Football doesn’t pause for emotional revelations.
“That makes sense,” I say. I even smile.
Sasha passes through with her tablet, already half distracted. “He’ll be late tonight,” she adds. “Long day.”
Late.
Every time my phone buzzes, my heart lifts before reality steps in. A publicist. A group text. A calendar alert.
Never him.
By midafternoon, the rational part of me starts stacking explanations like sandbags.
He’s busy. This is normal. Last night was intense. Anyone would need space.
But there’s another voice. Smaller. Sharper.
He knows this ends. Maybe he’s already stepping back.
I sit on the edge of the couch, hands folded in my lap like I’m waiting for news.
I open my phone and type his name.
Are you okay?
Delete.
About last night—
Delete.
Did I misread—
Delete.
I set the phone face-down.
By the time the city lights come on, the penthouse glows warm and golden. It should feel cozy. Safe.
Instead, I curl into the corner of the couch, knees tucked under me, feeling smaller than I did this morning.
He hasn’t come home.
And the thought slips in, quiet and cruel.
Maybe he won’t.
Not the way I want him to.