Hudson
Jesus Christ, the smell in this office was enough to give me a migraine. Perfume. Like, not just one spritz—I’m talkin’ full shower-level saturation. Chanel, Tom Ford, and probably whatever $800 bottle some intern stole off her influencer boss last week. And all of it? Smothered in tension thicker than the Botox in Beverly Hills.
Walking into Apex Talent Management felt like entering the belly of the beast. The kind of beast with gold accents, imported espresso, and air conditioning set to Arctic Blast. The receptionist, a wax statue of a woman named Reagan or Raegan or whatever, didn’t even glance up as I strutted in. Not that I expected a warm welcome. My face had been plastered all over social media all week—tabloid headlines screaming: HUDSON KNIGHT: HEARTbrEAKER OR HOMEWRECKER?
Fuck.
I knew what I was walking into. Celeste Sterling had summoned me. When she summons, you go. Doesn’t matter if your soul’s leaking out your ears from your latest PR disaster or if you’re still drunk from last night’s tequila-and-self-pity combo. You show up.
The click of my boots echoed through the marble hallway like I was walking into court. And in a way, I was. Celeste’s office door was already open.
Bad sign.
She never left it open unless she was prepping for war. Her lair was a modern temple to efficiency and intimidation: minimalist design, angular furniture, and a view of the Hollywood Hills so perfect it looked photoshopped. A faint citrus scent hung in the air like someone had Febreezed away the tears of C-list actors.
Celeste sat behind her glass-and-chrome desk like a Bond villain in couture. Petite, platinum-blonde, and ferocious. Her hair was a waterfall of controlled chaos. That day, she wore an Oscar de la Renta navy pantsuit so sharp it could cut glass and heels so red they might as well have been dipped in blood. Her nails tapped the desk like an executioner counting down.
“, , ,”
she said without looking up. Just my name repeatedly. Like a curse.
I sank into the chair across from her and sprawled like I was still in control, which I wasn’t. The chair was too stiff for comfort, and the tension in the room could’ve been sold in bricks. I tried to keep my poker face, but I knew I looked like shit. Even my five o’clock shadow had a hangover.
Then she looked up. And fuck me sideways; if looks could kill, I’d be on a slab.
“, what the fuck were you thinking?”
“Oh, come on,”
I muttered, crossing my arms.
“You act like I punched a nun.”
“You might as well have.”
Her eyes, a glacial shade of blue, narrowed.
“You broke up with Jackson Pierce and then had the audacity to get caught leaving The Belmont with that underwear model—the next day?”
“I didn’t get caught,”
I grumbled.
“We were getting fries.”
“At midnight. In West Hollywood. While holding hands. Wearing matching hoodies, .”
I rolled my eyes.
“He borrowed mine. Jesus.”
Celeste slammed her hand on the desk, sending a crystal pen holder wobbling.
“You just gave America the queer breakup sequel to Gone Girl. You think your fans care about nuance? They want a love story, not a tabloid headline about the ‘bad boy who broke Golden Jackson’s heart.’”
I leaned back and ran a hand through my hair.
“Jackson’s a manipulative prick. He paints himself like Saint Twinkletoes but behind closed doors? Dude’s got more red flags than a fucking communist parade.”
“Doesn’t matter,”
she snapped.
“Perception is reality. Jackson is the wounded gazelle. You’re the lion with a dick pic problem.”
I barked a laugh.
“That wasn’t a dick pic. It was art.”
Celeste’s expression didn’t budge.
“It was a mirror selfie with your cock half-out in a Gucci thong.”
“So?”
“So, until this cools down, no one wants to touch you with a ten-foot pole—unless it’s on OnlyFans. And I am this close to telling you to make the jump.”
That hit harder than I wanted to admit. I shifted in my seat. The room suddenly felt too bright, too clean. Like it was rejecting me.
I muttered, “So what, I disappear now? Crawl under a rock and wait for the next scandal to knock me off the trending page?”
Celeste sighed. The sigh of a woman who had resuscitated more careers than she had facial expressions.
“Yes. You vanish. Strategic retreat. You go somewhere quiet, rebrand, reset, do yoga, or smoke weed—whatever helps you not end up on Watch What Happens Live with Andy Cohen, crying into a martini.”
I squinted at her.
“You have a plan. I can smell it.”
She grinned. That scary, smug grin meant she’d already made three phone calls before I even woke up.
“Have you ever heard of Rehoboth Beach?”
“What the hell is a Rehoboth? And why can’t I just go to Provincetown or Fire Island instead? It’d be a much better time.”
“Because you’re bound to get into seedy trouble in those places. But in Rehoboth Beach… I trust you’ll make less of a commotion. It’s in Delaware. Gay-friendly. Low profile. Beach town. Classy enough that they won’t burn you at the stake, but off the radar enough that Perez Hilton won’t bother flying a drone over your house.”
“Delaware? Are you fucking kidding me? Is that even a real state?”
She ignored me.
“I have a contact there. James Harkins. Realtor. Former Broadway dancer. Handsome. Efficient. Discreet.”
“You’re trying to pimp me out to a real estate agent?”
“I’m trying to save your career, you dramatic dumbass. You go to Delaware. You lie low. You get a tan, adopt a dog, and maybe bake a fucking pie. Show the world you’re human.”
I sighed and scratched my stubble.
“I do like pie.”
Celeste beamed.
“I knew you’d see the light.”
I stood up and adjusted my jacket.
“Alright. Fine. Book me a one-way ticket to gay Siberia. I’ll talk to your hot realtor friend and go find myself in a beach chair somewhere far from TMZ.”
“Good,”
she said, already texting like a demon.
“I want your ass on the sand by Friday. Pack light, don’t post anything stupid, and for the love of RuPaul, stay off Grindr.”
“No promises,”
I muttered as I turned to leave.
She called after me, “Oh, and ?”
I looked back.
“No thongs in public. Not yet.”
I grinned.
“What about private beaches?”
She didn’t answer, but the door clicked behind me, and I knew that meant I was dismissed.
Outside, the world was still spinning. The headlines were still nasty. The fans were still pissed. But for the first time in days, I had a plan. Maybe even a shot at peace.
Delaware. Fucking Delaware.
Let’s see what kind of trouble I can not get into there.