Miles
I never imagined a walk on the beach could feel this good—this grounding, this intimate. The Atlantic stretched out beside us, the morning sky beginning to warm with the kind of pinks and blues you only see in pastel paint sets and self-help Instagram quotes. Hudson was by my side, a little sleepy, a little disheveled, but content. He kept close, matching my steps. I liked that.
We were just coming up on the path back to my beach house when I heard it.
“!”
My spine stiffened like someone had yanked my nerves up by a string. Hudson stopped, too, his body tensing beside me.
I turned—and there he was.
Owen.
Standing barefoot on the edge of the sand like some melodramatic ghost in last season’s chambray, eyes dark and determined, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it hurt to exist.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
I asked, my voice tight and my breath already shallow.
“I needed to see you,”
he said, stepping forward.
“I wanted to talk.”
“No,”
I said firmly.
“We’re past that. You don’t get to just show up like this and demand a conversation.”
Hudson looked between us, clearly uncertain if he should say something, but I waved him back with a quick glance. This was my moment. My line in the sand—literally.
“I just need five minutes,”
Owen pleaded. “Alone.”
Hudson took a slow step forward anyway, protective and steady.
“You got a real talent for ignoring boundaries, man.”
Owen smirked, but it didn’t touch his eyes.
“Oh, Hudson Knight. The mess himself. I’m not surprised you’re here. You’re exactly the type who’d latch onto someone vulnerable and turn it into a PR stunt.”
“Excuse me?”
Hudson barked, taking another step, but I put a hand on his arm. He was vibrating with rage.
“You used him,”
Owen said, pointing at Hudson, then looking at me.
“He used you, .”
My jaw clenched. “Stop it.”
“You really think it’s a coincidence the paparazzi caught you two kissing, and then suddenly the world knows you and I are divorced? You think it wasn’t all orchestrated?”
Owen’s voice rose, bitter, sharp. “Ask him.”
I stared at Owen.
“Where is this coming from?”
He folded his arms.
“I called your assistant. I needed to know where you were staying. She told me everything. Said Hudson’s agent worked with her to spin the story. The goal was to soften Hudson’s image by associating with you—the well-liked, charming, newly single Whitaker. The plan was for him to convince you to come out publicly about the divorce.”
My head was spinning.
“That’s ridiculous. You think I’m that easy to manipulate?”
“She said he volunteered for the job, .”
Owen looked triumphant now.
“That being seen with you would help wash the filth off his scandal.”
I turned to Hudson slowly.
“Tell me that’s not true.”
Hudson didn’t say anything at first. His eyes, usually so smug and unreadable, softened. And then he nodded. Once. Slowly. Regret heavy in the movement.
“Shit, . Yeah. I was advised to convince you to announce your divorce with Owen. But I swear, I didn’t connect with you just to fix my image.”
Owen laughed, cruel and loud.
“Oh, that’s rich.”
“Shut up, Owen!”
I snapped, fire now burning through my chest.
“You don’t get to talk. You cheated on me. You walked out. You lied and then kept lying. Don’t act like some savior here.”
“I came to fix it!”
Owen exclaimed.
“You came because he made headlines,”
I said, pointing to Hudson.
“You saw the kiss, and you couldn’t stand that someone else might actually make me happy.”
Hudson stepped forward, hands raised slightly.
“, I swear I was going to tell you. I was going to—”
“Get away,” I said.
“What?”
Hudson said, almost whispering.
“Both of you. Just… get the hell away from me.”
I turned, walking straight to the house, each step feeling like it was punching into sand that wanted to swallow me whole. The second I got inside, I slammed the sliding door shut behind me and leaned against it.
The air was thick. Too heavy. Too hot. My heart was beating in a way I hadn’t felt since the night Owen left. Like I was free-falling inside my own ribs.
I slid to the floor, head in my hands, and cried. Ugly, angry, guttural tears. Not because I still loved Owen. I didn’t.
But because I thought—just maybe—Hudson could’ve been different.
And I’d let myself believe it.