Chapter 31 Lila
Chapter thirty-one
Lila
Isit at my vanity with my elbows braced on the glass, staring through blurry, sleepless eyes. My makeup brushes are lined up neatly where I left them yesterday. Untouched. My hair is still in the loose, uneven braid I slept in, strands slipping free like they’ve given up on discipline entirely.
I feel the same way.
My phone buzzes again. And again. Calendar alerts. Messages from assistants. Gentle reminders escalating into urgent ones.
Pull it together. Show up. Be Lila Hart.
My chest tightens until it hurts to breathe.
All I can see is Cam walking out of the penthouse.
I tried to rehearse last night. Tried to drown it out with music the way I always do. But every chord sounded wrong. Every lyric bent toward him like a compass needle.
Every quiet moment screamed his absence.
I press my fingertips to the edge of the vanity, grounding myself. The glass is cool. Solid. Real.
I close my eyes and take a breath.
It comes out uneven.
I can’t do today.
Not like this. Not hollowed out. Not pretending I’m fine when something inside me has splintered clean through the middle.
There’s a version of me that could power through. Smile. Perform. Deliver exactly what’s expected.
That version is exhausted.
So I pick up my phone.
My thumb hovers for a second—long enough for guilt to try to talk me out of it.
Then I start canceling.
One meeting. Then another. Then the entire day.
My inbox fills with concern. Confusion. Panic.
I don’t care.
For the first time in my career, I choose not to show up.
I set the phone down and stare at my reflection. Bare face. Red-rimmed eyes. A woman who looks nothing like a pop star and everything like someone who’s finally hit her limit.
My chest aches.
But underneath it, something else stirs.
Relief.
I don’t hear Manny come in.
Not until he’s leaning against the doorway.
He takes me in.
The pajamas. The bare face. The braid that’s halfway given up.
“You’re not even dressed,” he says gently.
I don’t bother lying. I don’t have the energy. “I called off the day.”
His eyebrows lift, just a fraction. Surprise. Not disapproval.
He steps into the room and sits on the edge of the couch like he knows better than to crowd me. Manny has always known how to give space without disappearing.
He looks at my eyes.
And then he exhales.
The sound carries years of knowing me. Of watching me build myself out of sound and grit and stubborn survival.
The silence does what it always does with Manny. It loosens something in me. Truth seeps out before I can stop it.
“It hurts,” I whisper.
My voice cracks on the word. Embarrassingly small. Like it belongs to someone younger.
Manny’s expression softens. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I can see that.”
“I didn’t think it would,” I admit. “Not like this.”
He nods once. “You lost someone important.”
I shake my head, weak and automatic. “He wasn’t supposed to be.”
Manny doesn’t smile. Doesn’t argue. He just tilts his head and looks at me with that steady, patient truth I’ve never been able to dodge.
“Sweetheart,” he says, “you don’t ask a man to sleep on your couch. You don’t let him walk into chaos with you. You don’t let him kiss you…”
My breath hitches.
“…unless he matters.”
I blink hard, but it’s too late. Tears burn anyway. Hot and traitorous.
I press my lips together, trying to hold myself together.
Manny watches me for a long beat.
Then he stands. “I’ll give you some time.”
The door closes behind him.
And for the first time since Cam left, I let myself cry.
I curl onto the couch without thinking, knees tucked in, and reach for the sweatshirt draped over the armrest. Cam’s. I stole it weeks ago and never gave it back. Oversized. Soft.
I pull it around me and breathe in.
Clean laundry. Cedar. Something steady underneath it all.
My chest tightens.
I shouldn’t have let myself rely on him.
You knew better. You always know better. Don’t need anyone. Don’t lean.
I bury my face in the collar and whisper into the fabric, “I miss you.”
The words don’t echo. They just sit there. Honest. Small.
My ex’s voice surfaces the way it always does when I’m vulnerable. Sharp. Smug. Certain. You can’t tell a good man from a bad one. You always fall for the wrong type. You make everything about yourself.
Those words have lived in my body for years.
I let that wound call the shots with Cam.
I sit up abruptly, breath uneven.
Because Cam never asked for more than I gave him. He never took advantage of my fear. Never tried to use my name or my image or my vulnerability.
He protected me without making me feel weak. Kissed me like I was something precious instead of temporary.
And I punished him for it.
Because of his wounds. Because of mine.
I drag the sleeve of the sweatshirt across my eyes and stand, pacing the living room. My heart is racing now, but it’s different than before. Not panicked.
Clear.
No more hiding.
If I really want him, then I have to be brave enough to say so.
And brave enough to fight for him.
I stop pacing and stand in the middle of the living room, one hand pressed flat to my sternum. My heart is still racing, but it’s steady now. Focused.
I pick up my phone.
My thumb hovers over his name.
My pulse stutters.
He might not answer.
He might be angry. Or closed off. Or already convinced that leaving was the right thing to do.
If I’m going to fight for him, I need to do it right.
I don’t call Cam.
I need one thing settled before I can face him. One obstacle removed. One excuse stripped away.
I scroll past his name and stop at another contact.
Noah Carroway — ERS Legal.
I don't hesitate.
He answers on the second ring. “Lila. I assume this is about dissolving the marriage contract.”
My chest tightens, but my voice doesn’t waver.
“No,” I say.
There’s a pause on the line. Papers rustle faintly, like he’s recalibrating. “Then… how can I help you?”
I walk to the window and stare out at the city. Cars move below. Lives continuing. People making choices without contracts attached.
“I need a clause removed,” I say.
Another pause. Longer now.
“That’s… unusual,” Noah says carefully. “Which clause?”
My reflection stares back at me in the glass. Tired eyes. Red-rimmed. But steady.
I think about the way Cam hesitated before touching me. The way everything between us lived in careful half-steps because of words someone else had written.
I close my eyes.
“The intimacy clause,” I say. “I want it gone.”