Chapter 28
Lila
Icouldn’t stop seeing his face. Every time I closed my eyes, I relived Mason’s hurt, confused expression as he walked away. The memory cinched tight around my ribs, until even lying still felt like a punishment.
With a defeated sigh, I reached for my phone. The screen brightness stabbed my eyes, and I squinted as I dimmed it, dread already crawling up my spine. I was trapped in this sick compulsion, unable to look away as I scrolled through an endless stream of hateful comments.
When the story first broke, it had been Mason’s scandal. The famous hockey player with the so-called “sex dungeon.” But that was yesterday.
Today was different. Today was worse.
My thumb froze on a tweet with hundreds of likes and dozens of replies.
A screenshot of Vanessa’s exclusive interview with some trashy sports blog I’d never heard of, the headline blaring: Hockey Star’s Ex Tells All: The Truth Behind the Sex Dungeon.
And there, highlighted in the text, was my name.
Not just a vague mention of an interior decorator. My full name.
Lila Prescott.
From there, it didn’t take the internet long to connect the dots between my name, my photo on the Samantha Grace Interiors website, and the paparazzi photos of Mason and me outside the restaurant.
The blonde in the pics is his designer. Look it up. Lila Prescott. Works for some bougie Miami design firm.
Accompanying the tweet was the paparazzi photo that had been circulating, Mason’s arm around my waist, my face half turned away from the camera, but still recognizable. The timestamp showed that it had been posted just four hours ago. By morning, it would be everywhere.
My stomach twisted into a painful knot. I wasn’t just some anonymous decorator anymore. I was a storyline. A villain.
The comments were piling up fast, and they were vicious.
Designed a sex dungeon and then sold him out. What a gold-digging bitch.
The words landed hard. I scrolled further, each comment worse than the last.
Imagine sleeping with your client and then ruining his career.
Mason deserves better than this trashy opportunist.
The narrative kept twisting, painting Vanessa as the victim, the ex-girlfriend blindsided by my so-called betrayal.
Posts like “Poor Vanessa! Her man gets traded to Miami, and 5 minutes later, this Lila slut sinks her skanky claws into him,” and “Vanessa was always the better choice!” left me raw, each comment reinforcing the lie that I had somehow stolen Mason away.
Bet she’s selling her story to the highest bidder right now.
Just another desperate puck bunny trying to trap a hockey player.
A hot tear slid down my cheek.
Bet she’s loving the attention. Pathetic.
I scrolled like I was punishing myself, watching strangers dissect my character, my intentions, my worth. People who’d never met me passing judgment based on a photograph and a lie.
My breath came in short, sharp bursts. Panic slid under my skin and took over.
The lightheadedness that followed was familiar.
It was the same feeling that had overwhelmed me years ago when the Epic Fail video went viral.
When I’d become a meme. When Delilah Mae Prescott, pageant contestant, became “Epic Fail Girl” overnight.
This was how it started. One day, you were just existing, doing your job, living your life. The next, you were a public joke. A cautionary tale. A meme.
It happened before. And I barely survived it.
I forced myself to breathe deeper, fighting the rising panic. It wouldn’t be like last time. It couldn’t be. I was older now. Wiser. I’d built walls. Created distance. Protected myself.
But who was I kidding? The feeling was identical. My private life was turning into public entertainment all over again, and I was helpless to stop it.
I closed the app before I could absorb any more venom. On the home screen, a cluster of missed calls drew my attention. I knew exactly who they were from.
My mother had called five times today, leaving three voicemails. I didn’t need to listen to know what she’d said. I could hear her voice in my head, that Southern drawl sharpened with reproach.
“This is exactly what I warned you about, Delilah Mae. Have you learned nothing from last time?”
I deleted the messages without listening and tossed my phone aside like it was contagious.
With everything swirling around me, I couldn’t stop thinking about how safe I felt in Mason’s arms. The solid warmth of his chest against my cheek, his heart thudding under my ear.
I wanted him right now, wanted to disappear into his arms where the chaos and cruelty of the outside world couldn’t reach me.
I wanted to bury my face in the crook of his neck and feel his hand stroking my hair. I wanted to hear his gruff voice telling me it would be okay. That we would figure it out together.
But I’d pushed that away. Rejected the comfort he offered. Because Mason didn’t exist in a safe cocoon. He lived in the real world, the one that was brutal and unforgiving.
I slid under my covers, pulling them over my head like I did when I was a little girl afraid of the dark. But I wasn’t afraid of the dark anymore. I was afraid of the light, the harsh spotlight that found me again. And this time, I wasn’t sure I had the strength to endure it.
Morning arrived with unforgiving brightness, slanting through my curtains like it had a grudge.
I’d managed maybe two hours of fitful sleep, my dreams a jumbled mess.
I dragged myself to the bathroom, wincing at my reflection.
Mechanically, I went through the motions of my morning routine.
After I finished the basics, I applied concealer, trying to erase the evidence of my sleepless night.
I’d always been able to put on a perfect face for the world. Today, the mask felt too heavy to wear.
The coffee maker gurgled in the kitchen, but I couldn’t summon the energy to pour myself a cup. Instead, I sat at the kitchen table, finally gathering the courage to check my phone.
A new text from Mason.
Mason: You okay? Call me if you need anything. Anytime. I’m here.
The lump in my throat grew painful. How could he still be thinking of me when I’d practically shoved him out my door yesterday? When I’d been too scared to let him help? Too terrified of what letting him in would mean?
I typed and deleted half a dozen responses before settling on a simple: “Thanks.”
Cold. Distant. Nothing like the warm, open exchanges we’d shared before. I hated myself a little as I hit send, watching the message switch from blue to delivered.
The cursor on my laptop screen blinked steadily over the design proposal I’d opened hours ago.
I’d told Sam I needed to work from home to avoid the reporters lurking outside Samantha Grace Interiors, but so far, I’d accomplished exactly nothing.
My mind refused to focus on color palettes or furniture layouts while my life was falling apart in real time.
Every few minutes, I checked my phone, both dreading and hoping for a new message from Mason.
I snapped my laptop shut and pushed away from my desk, too restless to sit still. My apartment, usually my sanctuary, felt claustrophobic. I paced from the living room to the kitchen and back again, glancing at my phone with each pass.
I needed to do something, anything, to occupy my hands and quiet my mind. Cleaning usually helped. Organizing too. My closet had been a disaster for weeks. Perfect. A mindless task to burn off nervous energy.
I marched into my bedroom and flung open the closet doors, immediately confronted by the mess inside.
I started folding, hanging, sorting. Usually, the process soothed me, but today my movements were jerky, aggressive.
I shoved shoes into their proper places, yanked dresses onto hangers, stuffed scarves into drawers.
When I reached the back corner of my closet, my hand brushed against something that didn’t belong. It was soft, tucked away behind shoeboxes and winter boots. I pulled it out, and my heart stuttered.
My pageant sash. My “big moment,” gift-wrapped in glitter and shame.
I ran my fingers over the smooth fabric, and like a floodgate opening, the memories rushed in. The bright lights of the stage. The Yorkie lifting his leg. My instinctive jerk backward, and then—
My “lucky” banana-printed spanx exposed to the world while the dog licked my face and the confetti cannon inexplicably discharged, leaving me sprawled, stunned, and mortified on the stage.
The video had gone viral before I even made it home that night, trending across social media. It turned into memes. Remixes. Parodies. My moment of humiliation replayed millions of times for strangers to enjoy.
I shoved the sash back into the dark corner of my closet. But it was too late. The memories had already crawled out.
It had taken me years to rebuild after the Epic Fail, and in 48 hours, it was all unraveling again.
I left my closet only half-cleaned and slumped onto my bed, drained. How long would it take before someone connected Lila Prescott, Mason Callahan’s “sex dungeon designer,” to Epic Fail Girl? Before my carefully rebuilt life came crashing down again?
Maybe I should quit Samantha Grace Interiors. Start over somewhere new. Again. Maybe Seattle or Denver. Somewhere far from Miami, from hockey, from any connection to Mason Callahan and this whole situation.
The thought should have been comforting, my familiar escape route, the path of self-preservation I’d taken before. Instead, it left me hollow.
Because running away again meant losing Mason. The man who made me laugh. Who listened when I spoke. Who looked at me like I was something worth keeping.
I closed my eyes, flooded by the little things he’d done that had snuck past my defenses.
The morning after our first night together, when he’d brought me breakfast in bed. The slow, private smile that had made my insides melt when we finished eating.