Miles
I slammed the door behind me harder than I meant to. The echo of it reverberated through the house like a judgment. Like a gavel. Like a sentence.
This retreat was supposed to be my sanctuary. My planned slice of calm. A place to recharge, to breathe, to—God forbid—heal. And now? Now it felt like a fucking crime scene.
I was still in my button-up shirt, my shoes still dusted with fine sand from the beach, my mouth still tingling faintly from the kiss—that kiss—and yet I felt like I had aged ten years in a single hour.
I stood there in the foyer, phone in hand, seeing the texts from my assistant, colleagues, and friends coming through a mile a minute, still glowing like flames from hell.
“, you need to call me.”
“Check Twitter now.”
“Damage control team says to say nothing for now.”
“I’m so sorry. I really thought this weekend would be quiet.”
Quiet. Right. Nothing says quiet like being publicly crucified on social media in real-time.
I opened the app against my better judgment.
The comments were a nightmare kaleidoscope of venom, judgment, and smug moral superiority.
@StyleSnitch: So much for Mr. Perfect. Cheaters wear linen now.
@TeaAndTragedy: Can’t believe I bought his “healing trip”
narrative just for him to be the betrayer.
@MartiniMouth: Not Whitaker locking lips with someone who isn’t his husband?? Plot twist I didn’t want.
@HouseOfFan: Welp. Unfollowed.
@PRQueen69: Hope the shrimp cocktail at the betrayal brunch was worth it.
I felt sick. My head pounded like I’d chugged gin on an empty stomach.
I heard my mother’s voice behind the other side of the door—concerned, maybe calling my name, I couldn’t process it—and I didn’t stop.
I leaned against the door, the lock clicking like a final heartbeat. My heart thudded violently in my chest. My fingers trembled as I tossed the phone onto the bed. It landed face down like it was ashamed of me, too.
How did this happen?
I slid down to the floor, my back against the door, my knees drawn to my chest like I was a scared little boy hiding from thunder.
How did I let myself get swept into this?
One kiss. One fucking kiss. And now, apparently, I was the poster child for infidelity and depravity.
Except I wasn’t. I wasn’t. I was the one who had been cheated on. I was the one who stood by quietly while the man I loved broke our vows. I was the one who packed up the pieces of my life and tried to build something new—something that felt like me again.
And now they thought I was the villain.
I buried my face in my hands.
My career… my brand…
All of it.
I had spent over a decade crafting it—carefully, immaculately. Every post, every book, every appearance. I built a lifestyle empire out of order, peace, and damn lemon zest. And now it might crumble because I dared—dared—to find joy for five minutes in the arms of someone who made me feel alive again.
I heard a soft knock on the door once more.
“?”
My mother’s voice was gentle.
“Honey, can I come in?”
I couldn’t answer. I didn’t trust my voice. I pressed my lips into my knee and shook my head, even though she couldn’t see it.
Another knock.
“. Please talk to me. You don’t have to go through this alone.”
But I did. I needed to. For one moment.
If I opened that door, I would dissolve. I would say something too dramatic or try to fix it or pretend like I was okay. And I wasn’t okay.
I wasn’t anywhere close to okay.
I crawled onto the bed eventually, not bothering to undress, and pulled the covers up over my head like a child warding off monsters.
It was childish, maybe.
But today, I wasn’t Whitaker, the guru of grace and cocktail napkin curation. I was just… a man. A tired, broken man whose life had taken a very sharp, very public left turn.
And I didn’t know how to navigate it.
Not yet.
I don’t know how long I stayed curled in this position—fetal, twisted in the expensive sheets I’d once described in a magazine spread as “crisp and rejuvenating with a buttery finish.”
Now they just felt suffocating. Wrinkled. Hot. Like they were closing in on me.
My face was sticky with tears, and my eyes throbbed, swollen, and dry. I hadn’t cried like this in years. Maybe not even during the divorce. No—especially not during the divorce. I’d held it together through that like a champ. Smile for the press. Smile for the book tour. Smile for the camera.
But this? This was different.
This felt like everything was unraveling at once.
I pressed a pillow over my head, trying to drown out the world, but the ping of my phone pierced through like a siren. Another ping. Then another.
Please… Just let me wallow.
I ignored it for a full five minutes before finally shoving the pillow aside and dragging the phone off the nightstand. The screen lit up, glowing like judgment.
HUDSON ??:
Hey… I saw everything. I’m so sorry.
Ping.
HUDSON ??:
I had no idea those pictures were being taken. You didn’t deserve this, .
Ping.
HUDSON ??:
Can we please talk over dinner? Just us. No cameras. No drama.
Ping.
HUDSON ??:
I’ll make it up to you. I promise. Just… please don’t spiral. Things can be fixed.
Ping.
HUDSON ??:
It’s not the end of the world. I know it feels like it. But trust me, I’ve survived worse press than this. You’re going to be okay.
I stared at the messages, my thumb hovering over the screen. The polite part of me—yes, the same part that sent handwritten thank-you cards to Uber drivers—wanted to type something. Anything. A “Thanks.”
Or maybe a “Not now.”
But I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
My fingers trembled. My chest tightened again, the sting of fresh tears welling up. My stomach ached from sobbing.
This… this wasn’t supposed to happen. This was what I never allowed to happen. My life had rules. Systems. Many organized calendars. Daily mantras. Perfect light angles for Instagram. Signature fonts. I’d built an entire empire out of control.
And now? I was an internet punchline.
A cheater meme.
Because I let myself get caught up in spontaneity. Because I kissed someone who made me forget about everything for one stupid moment.
Because I went off-script.
I threw the phone across the bed like it burned me. Hudson’s texts sat there like they were breathing, pulsing.
“He wanted to talk over dinner?”
How dare he make it sound so casual, as if I hadn’t just had my entire career detonated online like some Real Housewives plot twist.
I sat up abruptly, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and gripping the edge like the world might tip.
How could he be so calm?
“Things can be fixed.”
“It’s not the end of the world.”
Did he know who I was? Did he have any idea what I’ve spent years creating? The sponsorships. The endorsements. The immaculate image.
Everything had a script.
Even my downfall should have had a script.
Instead, I’d let my mother talk me into loosening up. Into doing something reckless. Into feeling something again.
And look where it got me.
I’d let Hudson charm me with his roguish smile, foul mouth, and unexpected kindness. I let myself fall under his spell—just for a second. A brief, dazzling second. And that second was now plastered all over the damn internet.
What was I thinking?
I shook my head, dragging a palm down my face.
This wasn’t me. This wasn’t my brand. I don’t do public scandal. I don’t do casual kisses with notorious men in designer sunglasses. I don’t do paparazzi drama.
That’s Hudson’s world. Not mine.
I stood up, pacing the room, my breath ragged. Every step felt too loud. I pressed a hand against the cool wall, trying to ground myself, but nothing worked.
It was like trying to clean up broken glass with bare hands.
I shouldn’t have listened to my mother. Or to him.
I shouldn’t have said yes to that boat. Or that lunch. Or that kiss.
Unpredictable things happen when you go off-script.
And I hate unpredictable things.
I felt my body begin to tremble again. A fresh wave. A building sob that I didn’t have the strength to stop this time.
I collapsed back onto the bed, curling into myself again, the tears coming faster now—hot, ugly, and silent.
I didn’t want dinner.
I didn’t want to talk.
I didn’t want anything.
I just wanted the world to rewind to the time before I ever met Hudson Knight.