8. Camden #2
A knock stopped him before he reached the bed.
Camden turned and crossed to the door. The PR handler stood in the hallway, Camden’s black card in one hand and a small velvet box in the other.
“The boutique expedited the wrapping,” the handler said. “I had the hotel staff stage your suit on the bed for the distributor reception.”
Camden slid the card into his pocket and accepted the box.
“That’s the one?”
“Front-case piece. Same bracelet you pointed out.”
Camden lifted the lid.
The diamond tennis bracelet caught the overhead light, reflecting an unbroken row of white flashes. It was completely free of sponsor branding or campaign tie-ins—just diamonds, expensive enough that Tess would understand he had chosen this personally.
Entirely free of Marcus’s approval.
He studied the stones.
Put it on her wrist. Apologize. Bring her home.
Simple.
Maybe painfully overdue, but simple.
He could already picture the moment. Tess would glare at him first. She would make him earn the conversation, probably remind him that jewelry did not erase O’Malley’s or four months of silence.
He would let her. He would take every word, give her the full explanation, and eventually she would understand that none of the campaign nonsense had meant what it looked like.
He had been an idiot.
But idiots could still apologize.
Idiots could still fly home and fix it.
He gripped the box. “The second this playoff run is over, this is the leverage I need to bring Tess back to the table.”
The handler tucked his tablet under his arm. “It’s a stunning choice, Mr. Ford. Am I clearing you for the ballroom? Marcus needs to know you’re tracking for that eight-minute arrival.”
“In eight.”
“I’ll notify him.”
He kept the box open for one last look.
The bracelet sat against the velvet exactly as he wanted it: clean, expensive, undeniable. A solid object he could put in her hand to bridge the gap. Something he could carry into whatever confrontation waited when he finally tracked Tess down.
He closed the box, certain he had finally bought himself a way back to Tess.
The PR handler reached for the penthouse door. Before he could pull it shut, a man in a plain suit stepped into the opening behind him.
The handler reacted first, shifting sideways to block the threshold. His shoulder struck the doorframe.
“Sir, step back into the hall.”
The man looked past him toward Camden. “Excuse the intrusion. Just need a verbal. Are you Camden Ford?”
“Clear the doorway,” the handler said. “We only allow authorized personnel on this floor.”
Camden set the bracelet box on the table beside him.
“Stand down. I’m Ford.”
The stranger thrust a FedEx envelope past the handler’s shoulder. Camden took it before the staffer could interfere.
“Drop is logged, sir. Consider yourself served. Enjoy the flight.”
Then the man turned away.
The handler stared after him as the elevator doors opened down the corridor. “What the hell was that?”
His name was printed across the front of the envelope. Not typed onto hotel stationery. Not scrawled by a fan or sponsor rep. The black text belonged to a formal, trackable shipping label.
Served with what?
He grabbed the perforated strip and tore it open.
The cardboard resisted before tearing open. Camden pulled out a thick packet of stapled pages, covered in formal headings and legal text.
The first line stopped him.
“Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.”
He read it again.
The handler moved closer. “Mr. Ford?”
He frantically scanned the margins of the page.
Looking for some kind of mistake.
“Petitioner: Tess Monroe Ford.”
He gripped the margin.
Tess.
This wasn’t just a threat from a lawyer to scare him into calling. Her full legal name sat beneath the word petitioner in black print.
No.
Four months of silence had been one thing. Furious, excessive, impossible to understand, but still something he could repair. She had left. She had shut off her phone. She had refused to come home.
He had built the rest of the explanation himself.
She needed distance.
She would cool down.
He would find her after the playoffs.
The stack of legal paper wiped out everything he had planned.
Camden scanned lower, past case language and filing information that blurred into useless blocks until he reached the petitioner details.
An address.
He didn’t recognize the zip code.
Or the street.
Her card had gone dead after that first night on the interstate, leaving them blind. Now an entirely new address sat attached to her legal name.
He brought the page closer.
“Address: Heron Point Marina, Florida Keys.”
The handler said something behind him, but Camden stayed on the same line.
Heron Point Marina.
Florida Keys.
She had not been driving around waiting for him to come after her. She had built enough of a life somewhere else to put the location on divorce paperwork.
Camden read the line aloud, his voice stripped of everything he had used on the red carpet.
“Petition for Dissolution of Marriage. Petitioner… Tess Monroe Ford.”
He looked down again.
“Heron Point Marina, Florida Keys.”
The legal packet hit the glass table beside the bracelet box. The two objects sat inches apart.
The handler’s tablet buzzed again. Then again.
“This thing is melting down,” he said, swiping at the screen. “Marcus is screaming for us to hit the ballroom floor right this second. The apparel CEO is holding the space for your entrance. Sir, what just happened?”
Camden looked at the petition, then at the bracelet.
“Tess. She filed for divorce.”
The handler froze.
“Kill the gala schedule,” Camden said. “Wake the flight crew and get us a route to Florida.”
“Florida tonight?”
“Tonight.”
Another alert flashed across the tablet. The handler shook his head. “Mr. Ford, Marcus will terminate my contract before we even hit the lobby. I have zero authority to clear a flight if you ditch the VIP room without his approval.”
Camden looked toward the bedroom. The charcoal suit waited across the bed, untouched, arranged for a room full of distributors who expected him to smile beside Chloe and talk about quarterly projections.
Four months ago, he had chosen that machine over Tess.
Not again.
“Let him fire you,” Camden said. “Fuel the jet.”
The handler took a step closer. “You’re scheduled downstairs in eight minutes. If you walk out now, Marcus will come after both of us. The CEO flew in for you.”
“I don’t care.”
“You will when legal starts calling.”
Camden crossed the room and reached for the travel bag near the bedroom bench. The strap pulled taut against his palm as he lifted it.
The handler stared at him. “Sir, I’m asking you to think for thirty seconds before you blow this up.”
Camden turned back toward the table.
Under the chandelier, the diamonds still looked expensive enough to solve something. Beside them, Tess’s name sat on the divorce petition.
He had spent months telling himself she was angry.
She had spent those same months building an exit.
You let her do it alone.
The handler’s tablet buzzed again.
“Marcus is calling me now.”
“Then answer him after I’m gone.”
“And if the flight crew refuses the order?”
Camden adjusted the bag on his shoulder. “Tell them I’m coming to the airport either way.”
“Mr. Ford—”
“If you refuse, I’ll walk out to the curb and pay a cab to drive me straight onto the runway.”
The handler lowered the tablet.
Camden crossed the entryway. He left the jacket on the chair and ignored the fresh suit on the bed.
And he walked right past the diamonds sitting next to the divorce papers.
He reached the door and pulled it open.
“I’ll call the crew,” the handler said behind him.
Camden nodded without turning back.
Four months ago, Marcus had told him to give Tess space, and Camden had listened. He wasn’t going to make that mistake tonight.
Now the address was printed in black ink.
Heron Point Marina.
Florida Keys.
For the first time since she left, Camden had somewhere real to go.
He walked out.