Hudson
I checked my text messages for the fifth time.
Still nothing.
No dots, but a notification that my messages had been read. No sarcastic eye-roll emoji that usually followed when I said something mildly offensive but weirdly endearing. Just cold silence. Like my texts were falling into a void lined with shiplap and scented candles.
I tossed the phone onto the marble counter hard enough to make it skitter toward my bowl of overpriced lemons, the ones I bought solely for aesthetic reasons because, apparently, citrus equals sophistication on Instagram.
This was not how tonight was supposed to go.
I was supposed to be in the middle of my suave comeback arc. Knight—washed-up, scandal-laced dumpster fire goblin—was finally taking things seriously. I had showered. I had shaved. I had cologned in places no man should cologne. And I had buttoned a shirt all the way to the top. The top.
And he wasn’t even answering.
I leaned both elbows on the counter and stared at my reflection on the glossy surface. My stupid, over-symmetrical face stared back at me. I looked like a rejected mannequin from a Saint Laurent window display—perfectly packaged and completely useless.
But still, I got it. I really, really did.
Miles had spent his whole life cultivating something beautiful for himself. His career was polished and untouchable. His cocktails had themes. His outfits matched the food. Even the damn beach towels had a color story. And here I came, tracking sand through the gallery, knocking over antique vases with my social media stink and paparazzi filth and is canceled again stench.
He didn’t ask for this.
Hell, I barely wanted this—and I’d signed up for it.
I was used to it. People loving me and loathing me in the same breath. One article about my workout routine followed by another dragging my name through cocaine-smeared mud. I’d been called everything from unapologetically raw to an infected paper cut on the gay community.
But Miles?
Miles was the kind of guy you handed a bouquet of peonies to and meant it. The kind you brought to dinner parties with people who read The New Yorker and pronounced charcuterie correctly. The kind whose fanbase followed him for his storage hacks and stayed for his earnest, linen-draped optimism.
And now he was in a scandal.
Because of me.
I grabbed the drink I’d poured earlier—something strong and vaguely herbal I’d tried to make look like one of his. But it wasn’t balanced. It wasn’t photogenic. It tasted like regret and leftover mouthwash.
I winced and dumped it in the sink.
Then came a knock at my front door.
Three sharp taps. Then a pause. Then two more.
Not the kind of knock from a neighbor. Or a fan. Or a cop, thank God. It was intentional. Like whoever was on the other side knew me well enough to know I’d consider not answering.
I shuffled to the door, still barefoot, half-buttoned, and praying it wasn’t another delivery of unsolicited fan mail or a topless dude with an OnlyFans proposition.
Instead—it was her.
Cecilia.
Wearing oversized sunglasses, a flowing caftan printed with flamingos and martini glasses, and holding what looked like a goblet of Sauvignon Blanc.
“Oh,”
I said.
“It’s you. I was starting to worry the Ghost of Publicity Ruined was finally here to collect.”
She didn’t laugh.
She looked serious. Not her usual arched-eyebrow, vodka-sarcasm serious—but mother hen turned dragon protector serious.
“I need a word,”
she said.
“Preferably inside. Unless you want to discuss this with the breeze and the feral cat that keeps circling your trash bins.”
I stepped aside.
“Enter the den of disgrace.”
She marched past me like she owned the place—because women like Cecilia always do—and planted herself on the barstool at the counter. I hovered by the sink, not entirely sure if I was about to be hit with a lawsuit, a death glare, or an ice pick.
“Is he mad?”
I asked, already knowing the answer.
She sipped her wine like it was a blood oath.
“He’s wrecked, .”
That hit harder than I expected.
She went on.
“He’s locked himself in his room. Blinds drawn. Door barricaded. I tried everything—guilt, emotional blackmail, offering him cold lobster. Nothing worked.”
I scratched the back of my neck.
“He’s not answering my texts.”
“No,”
she said.
“He’s not answering anyone. But here’s the thing. He might open the door for you.”
I blinked.
“Why? So he can throw a candle at my head? Do you know how many angry people have thrown things at me? One guy launched a succulent.”
“He likes you,”
she said plainly.
“Against his better judgment. Against every warning sign his anxiety disorder is surely screaming at him. And right now, he’s drowning in all of it.”
I let that settle in.
Miles. Drowning. Because of me.
“You really think he’d listen to me?”
I asked.
“Because I’m not exactly good at these moments. I usually ghost, or make a joke about trauma, or seduce someone into forgetting their pain.”
“You’re not here to fix him,”
she said.
“You’re here to knock.”
I looked down at my bare feet, then at her perfectly painted toes peeking out of jeweled sandals.
She reached across the counter and rested a hand on mine.
“Please. Just try.”
I nodded slowly.
“Okay. I’ll go.”
She stood and gave me a small smile.
“Good. And wear shoes. His room has cream carpeting.”
Then she turned, floating out of my house like a fabulous storm cloud, leaving behind a scent of white wine, Chanel, and quiet maternal panic.
I stood there for a long moment after she left, staring at the door like it had delivered a prophecy. Then I glanced back at my phone—Miles’ silence still there like a ghost.
Alright. Game face.
Time to knock.
As I stepped outside, I caught up with Cecilia as we made our way back to their beach house.
Walking beside Cecilia Hastings felt like walking next to a martini with its own gravitational pull—refined, intimidating, and always one lime twist away from murder.
She didn’t say a word as we made our way up the driveway. Her caftan rippled in the breeze like royalty on a warpath, and I could practically hear the internal monologue happening behind those massive sunglasses: Please don’t screw this up, you scandalous himbo.
I, meanwhile, was in my nicest shoes, hair finger-styled into something that screamed I’m trying but not too hard and sweating.
Not from the walk. Not from the humidity. But from the ache in my chest that had nothing to do with cardio and everything to do with the image of Miles curled into himself behind a locked door, deleting my unread texts like they were trash spam from a man who didn’t deserve to be taken seriously.
We reached their beach house where everything looked too symmetrical, too calm, too carefully measured for someone like me to be knocking on the damn door.
Cecilia stopped and crossed her arms.
“Do I need to coach you through this like a pageant mom, or do you know how to knock?”
“I can knock,”
I muttered, but my voice cracked like a preteen at a school dance.
We entered the house, and she stepped aside dramatically. I climbed the stairs and passed the open bedroom doors to the only one that was closed. Undoubtedly his bedroom. I knocked. Three knocks. No more, no less. Polite but insistent. The kind of knock that says: Hey, I know I’m human garbage right now, but maybe don’t set me on fire yet.
Silence.
Then, a voice from behind the door. Miles.
“Mother, for the love of God, just leave me alone. I’m not coming out.”
Ouch. Knife. Twist. Insert in the heart.
I stepped forward, close enough to rest my forehead against the door if I wanted to, but I didn’t. I kept my voice low. Gentle. For me, anyway.
“It’s not just her. It’s me.”
A pause.
Then the lock clicked, like a gun cocked in a noir film.
Miles’ voice, edged and brittle: “Why are you here?”
I cleared my throat.
“Because this whole mess is because of me. And I’m sorry. I really am. I didn’t plan it. I didn’t want it. I mean, I wanted you, but I didn’t want this media explosion. I didn’t think anyone even gave a shit about me anymore here in Rehoboth. But apparently, I still make good tabloid fodder.”
A longer silence. I could hear shuffling on the other side of the door. Maybe pacing. Maybe breaking down. Man, that did something ugly to my chest.
“You shouldn’t have dragged me into this,”
he said, quieter now.
“My life was… organized.”
I chuckled softly, bitter.
“Yeah. I got that. You’re the human embodiment of a color-coded Google Calendar.”
No laugh from him. No smile.
I deserved that.
“But listen,”
I continued, voice steadier now, “I told my people to issue a statement. Public. Strong. Saying I’m not doing anything wrong and that I stand by my choices. That includes you.”
He scoffed through the door.
“Nice sentiment, but what does that fix?”
I exhaled. Here it was—the part I didn’t want to say, but I had to. My agent insisted I do this for my own sake, but really, I was doing it for Miles. I knew the only way Miles would come out of this alive and unscathed was to confess what was really going on between him and Owen. His fans, clients, and employees would surely understand. Then, things could finally go back to normal for him.
“Well… nothing,”
I admitted.
“Unless—unless you go public too. Let people know you’re going through a divorce. That this wasn’t some sleazy backdoor affair. That you’re not cheating on America’s imaginary idea of your perfect husband.”
He was quiet.
I imagined him standing there in those tailored joggers, probably with a glass of something citrusy and sad in one hand, trying not to scream. Or cry.
“You want me to blow up my personal life to save yours?”
he said finally, voice thin and shaking.
“No,”
I replied immediately.
“I want to save you. Because right now, everyone thinks you’re the villain in a drama you didn’t audition for. They don’t know Owen cheated. They don’t know he broke your heart. They have no idea you’re divorced. All they see is you kissing some asshole on a boat while, in their eyes, you’re still married."
That silenced him again.
I leaned my head against the door.
“I know this isn’t what you want,”
I whispered, but loud enough for him to hopefully hear.
“I know this is messy and unpredictable and disgusting in a way you probably haven’t felt since someone left a fingerprint on your stainless steel fridge. But it’s the truth, Miles. And sometimes, telling the truth is the only way to start cleaning up the mess.”
The door creaked.
Just slightly. A sliver of movement. I didn’t push it.
Then, from the other side, a small voice. Resigned. Wounded. Miles.
“You really think it’s the only way?”
“Yeah,”
I said. “I do.”
A sigh. Long. Painful.
Then: “Fine. I’ll call my assistant.”
My chest cracked open. Relief flooded in, tinged with guilt, and just a tiny flicker of something I couldn’t name yet. Hope? Maybe.
“Okay,”
I said, backing away.
“I’ll go. I’ll give you space. Just… if you ever want to kiss the asshole on the boat again… let me know.”
I heard a quiet, almost imperceptible sound from behind the door.
A breath.
Maybe a laugh.
Maybe a sob.
Maybe both.
And then silence.
I turned and walked down the steps.
Cecilia stood at the bottom with her arms folded and her sunglasses still on, like a gay mafia boss waiting for the hitman to report back.
“Well?”
she asked.
“He’s going to make the call. It means he’ll have to go public about the divorce, but you and I both know it’s the only way around this.”
She lifted her wine glass toward me in a solemn toast.
“You may live another day, Knight.”
“Thanks,”
I said.
“I’ll try not to waste it.”
But no sooner had I informed her of the current situation than I heard Miles talking to someone, probably his publicist. I decided to go back upstairs and pace the hallway.
I wasn’t eavesdropping. Let’s just clear that up right now.
I was adjacent to eavesdropping. Like, if eavesdropping were a felony, I’d maybe get off with a misdemeanor.
The thing is, it wasn’t like I had my ear pressed to the damn keyhole. I just happened to be loitering upstairs when I heard his muffled voice through the bedroom door. And when that voice belongs to a man who looked like he was going to spiral into a panic coma thirty minutes ago, you don’t just scroll through your phone and let Jesus take the wheel. You listen.
He was on the phone with someone—his publicist, I assumed—because he said her name like it was part plea, part warning: “Angela… I need to post something.”
There was a long pause. I could almost hear her gears turning from here. Probably worrying about brand consistency and font spacing or whatever kind of design cult Miles ran.
“I don’t want a whole essay,”
he continued.
“Just something… clear. Professional. I’ll write it myself.”
Another pause. Then: “No, I’m not mad at you. This isn’t your fault.”
Damn, his voice.
Soft, shaky, but still polished even in its crumbling. It made me want to do unspeakably wholesome things like fold his laundry or organize his junk drawer if he even had one. Doubtful though.
“I just need to say it plainly,”
he said.
“That Owen and I have divorced. That it’s been private, but it’s real. And that I appreciate the respect of my community moving forward.”
My breath hitched. It sounded so clean. So adult. Meanwhile, I was still the guy who’d said the phrase whore brunch on a podcast last month.
He hung up.
I didn’t move. I didn’t want him to know I’d heard his private conversation. It felt like a sacred little moment, and I wanted him to have that.
The door creaked open a moment later, and I backed away a step, casually leaning on the banister like I hadn’t just been soaking in his pain like a creepy emotional sponge.
He stepped out, eyes puffy but chin high.
“I need some space,”
he said.
“Just… for a little while.”
“Of course,”
I nodded, stepping back further.
“Take all the time you need.”
Cecilia, who appeared like a martini-scented specter at my side, nodded, too.
“We’ll be downstairs.”
We padded down the stairs together. Well, she padded. I clomped. Quiet was never my strength, especially on a limp, stitched-up foot.
Once in the kitchen, I exhaled like I’d been holding my breath since Meghan and Harry left the royal family.
Cecilia opened the freezer, pulled out a massive orb of ice from a fancy silicone mold, and dropped it into a crystal tumbler like a woman who had been training for this moment her entire life.
She poured something golden—whiskey, I assumed—and slid one to me, then made one for herself.
“To emotional triage,” she said.
I raised my glass.
“To your son not hating me forever.”
She sat, legs crossed, rings clinking against the glass.
“You know,”
she said, “I never thought I’d like anyone my son kissed. I mean, his taste in men is usually about as exciting as a hotel conference center.”
“Ouch.”
“But you?”
She sipped.
“You’ve got your own category. Dangerous. Unhinged. Possibly riddled with scandal. And yet…”
“And yet?”
She tilted her head.
“You showed up.”
I didn’t have a quip for that. I just looked down at my drink. It burned the whole way down. A good burn.
“Why are you still here, ?”
she asked suddenly.
I blinked.
“I mean, the drinks are free?”
She smirked.
But then I shrugged, quieter this time.
“Because I don’t want to leave until I know he’s okay.”
She looked at me for a long time. No sarcasm. No snark. Just a mom, taking stock of the guy who had accidentally thrown a brick through her son’s meticulously curated window.
“I’m glad you’re here,”
she said.
“Don’t screw it up.”
We sat in silence for a bit. The clock ticked like it was trying to remind us both that time still moved, even when hearts were paused.
I sipped again.
Miles was upstairs, probably rewriting every sentence of his statement eight times. The man was a walking mood board in loafers, and now he had to show the world his cracks.
But I wasn’t going anywhere.
Not until he told me to.