Chapter 34
Chapter thirty-four
Cam
I’m not losing her. Not like this. Not quietly. Not after she stood there and told the truth while I hid behind silence and good intentions.
They weren’t protection.
They were fear.
I dial Manny first because Manny answers. Always. Second ring.
“Cam,” he says, low and suspicious. He’s heard the breakup version. He’s probably rehearsed the speech where he tells me to stay away from her.
“I’m done hiding,” I say. My voice surprises even me. Steady. Clear. No cracks. “I’m coming tonight. To the concert.”
There’s a pause. A long one. I can picture him already—arms crossed, jaw set, weighing whether I’m a threat or just another man who doesn’t know when to stop.
“You can’t just show up,” he says. “It starts in less than an hour.”
“I know,” I say. “That’s why I’m calling.”
Another beat. Then a breath. Heavy. Protective. Reluctant.
“I’ll call you back,” he says, and hangs up.
It'll do.
Noah next. ERS lawyer. The man who lives in gray areas and fine print. He answers on the first ring, like he’s been waiting.
“If this is about the NDA—” he starts.
“It’s about the truth,” I say. “I’m not hiding anymore. Cameras, contracts, fallout. I’ll take it.”
Silence. Then a quiet, thoughtful hum.
“You realize this will detonate,” he says.
“I know,” I say. “That's the point.”
A short laugh. Respect, maybe.
“I’ll clear what I can,” he says. “Don’t make me regret this.”
“I won’t,” I say.
Evelyn is last.
She picks up like she always does—calm, composed, terrifyingly perceptive.
“You’re done running,” she says by way of greeting.
“I am,” I say. “She told the truth. Now it’s my turn.”
I expect strategy. Terms. A warning.
Instead, she smiles. I can hear it through the phone.
“Good,” she says. “Go get her.”
The call ends. The city blurs past, lights streaking.
My hands are steady on the wheel. My chest hurts.
Fear is still there, curled tight and watchful, but it’s not driving anymore.
I am.
I pull onto the highway toward the stadium, heart pounding like it’s game day and everything is on the line.
And this time, I’m not staying on the sidelines.
When I get there, Manny is exactly where I expect him to be.
Center of the corridor. Arms crossed. Jaw locked. Black suit like a wall with a pulse.
“Cam,” he says, voice flat. Not welcoming.
The hallway behind him hums with motion. Headsets. Runners. A guitarist laughing too loudly. The thrum of a stadium waking up.
Lila’s world, spinning fast and sharp, and every person in it trained to spot danger.
Including me.
“I’m not here to make this harder,” I say. I stop a few feet away. “I’m here to finish what I started.”
Manny lifts a brow.
“I thought you had finished it,” he says. “You walked away.”
I nod. I don’t argue. I don’t defend myself.
“I know I hurt her,” I say. “But I can’t let her face all of this alone.” My chest tightens, but I keep my voice even.
Behind Manny, Noah appears like he materialized from the drywall. Tablet tucked under his arm. Eyes sharp, measuring liability in real time.
“This isn’t advisable,” Noah says.
“I know,” I say.
Manny glances at Noah, then back to me, his frown growing.
“Look, I’m not asking to be trusted,” I say. “I’m asking for five minutes.”
Manny studies my face. He’s good at this. He’s spent years separating threats from noise.
“What are you going to do in those five minutes?” he asks.
“I have to tell her.” I swallow. “That I love her.”
Noah exhales slowly. Manny doesn’t move.
“And if she says no?” Manny asks.
My answer is immediate.
“Then I leave,” I say. “No fight. No spin. No second angle.”
Silence stretches. Long. Loud.
Somewhere nearby, the crowd roars as the opener finishes. The sound leaks through the walls like weather.
Manny’s shoulders drop an inch. Just enough to notice if you’re watching for it.
“You screw this up,” he says, “I’ll be the one who walks you out.”
“That’s fair."
He steps aside.
Just like that, a path opens where there wasn’t one before.
“Go,” Manny says. “Fix it.”
My lungs finally remember how to work.
I nod once. Not a thank-you. A promise.
Crew members move around me like I’m invisible and in the way at the same time. Headsets crackle. Someone curses softly. I’m handed a mic pack.
A woman with a clipboard glances at me, then away, like eye contact is illegal. Another guy checks my mic pack twice, fingers brisk and careful, like he’s handling something that could explode.
“Thirty seconds,” someone calls.
My heart kicks hard against my ribs. Not fear. Not exactly.
It’s the same charge I get before kickoff. That sharp, humming readiness. The moment before the snap when the world narrows and all that exists is what you’re about to do.
Except this time, I can’t brute-force my way through it.
I stand just off the curtain, close enough to hear the crowd breathe. It’s a living thing out there. Forty thousand people, buzzing, waiting, unaware they’re about to become witnesses instead of spectators.
I roll my shoulders once. Flex my hands. They’re steady.
Good.
I’m not afraid of the cameras. I’ve been dissected in public before. Twisted. Lied about. Survived it.
What scares me is simpler.
Losing her again.
I picture Lila the way she looked the last time I saw her. Chin lifted. Eyes too bright. Holding herself together with sheer will.
She told the truth anyway.
Alone.
I close my eyes and practice the first line under my breath. The one that matters. The one that changes everything.
“I need to say something about my wife.”
The word lands differently than it used to.
Wife.
It doesn’t feel like paperwork. Or pressure. Or a role I’m trying to be worthy of. It feels like a choice. Like hope. Like the future leaning in, asking if I’m brave enough to meet it.
Someone touches my elbow. Manny. Close now. Solid. He doesn’t look at me, just toward the stage.
“She’s ready backstage,” he says. “But we’ll slow her up. The announcer will cue you.”
“OK.”
He nods once. Approval, maybe. Or trust.
The lights dim.
The roar shifts, confused, curious. An MC’s voice booms through the stadium, announcing an unexpected message, something unscheduled, something special.
The curtain stirs.
This is it.
I take one breath. Then another.
And then I step forward, into the light.
I don’t look at the crowd. I look at her.
Lila is across the stage, frozen in the wings. Wide-eyed, mouth parted in surprise.
The crowd’s roar rises like a tidal wave.
I lift the mic, eyes locked on Lila.