You need to lie low until we meet with PR. Minnesota trip might actually help now. Keep your head down. Eyes up.
I rubbed a hand over my face, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. I’d been in the public eye for years. Scandals, bad games, injuries—I thought I’d seen it all.
But this?
This was different.
This wasn’t just about press. This was about her.
And I didn’t know if she’d ever forgive me for it.
I called her. Straight to voicemail.
Again.
Same thing.
By the third time, I was gripping the phone so tight my knuckles ached. The ringing felt like an insult. The silence after felt worse.
I thumbed out a text:
Pick up.
No reply.
Another:
Daphne. Please.
Nothing.
The absence felt like an assault.
I sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, phone dangling from my hand, and I pictured her—on her couch, hair pulled up, phone in hand, watching the world turn on her. Watching vultures circle. Reading headlines that made her out to be something she wasn’t.
The image burned.
Flash—her face lit up in that dim hotel room, cheeks flushed, eyes daring me to cross the line.
Flash—the way she’d breathed against my neck after I kissed her, soft and shaky.
Flash—the look she gave me in the cab window once, like she’d finally let me in.
Now all of it was on loop, playing behind my eyelids like some sick highlight reel. Every time I blinked, the grainy leaked footage blurred with the real memory, until I couldn’t separate the two.
I raked a hand over my face, dragging it down over my mouth to keep from shouting. The more I tried to reason with myself—to tell myself this was PR damage, not personal—the hotter the anger flared.
This wasn’t a stunt. This wasn’t a contract. This was her.
Someone had taken what we’d kept between us—messy, fragile, unfinished—and turned it into a weapon.
And now she wouldn’t pick up.
My phone buzzed again—Cam. Another message.
Stay calm. PR will handle this. We’ll meet tomorrow.
I ignored it. My thumb hovered over Daphne’s name, about to hit dial again, knowing it’d go nowhere.
