I stand and walk to the corner of the room where my bag sits. I unzip it and begin packing without rushing. Shirt. Jeans. Passport. Charger. Every movement steady, controlled, as if I’ve done this before.
Because I have.
When something starts to cost too much, you leave before it costs more.
I don’t allow myself to replay the conversation in my head, but it pushes in anyway.
She said she wouldn’t use it.
She promised.
But promises don’t mean silence. Promises don’t mean restraint. Promises don’t stop someone from mentioning a detail in the wrong room to the wrong person who understands exactly how to weaponize it.
And Carey’s text says everything.
Great work on the Popovich case. I knew you’d get him to crack.
Sleeping with a client to advance your career.
Congrats.
The words settle like confirmation, not revelation.
I pick up Natalia’s phone from the bedside table and stare at the open message for a moment longer. It doesn’t matter whether she handed Carey the physical email. She didn’t need to. All Carey needed was the narrative, and Natalia gave her enough to construct one.
I grab the sticky notepad off the bedside table and write a note.
Carey says Congrats.
I left the sticky note on her phone for her to see when she gets back.
I don’t need to explain anything else.
My own phone won’t stop vibrating. My agent. Randolph. The team group chat lit up with speculation and damage control suggestions. I silence it all. I don’t have the patience to manage anyone else’s panic right now.
The chalet feels different this morning. Too quiet. Too warm. The air still carries the faint scent of her shampoo and wood smoke, and the bed behind me is still rumpled from last night.
For a moment, I considered waiting. Giving her the chance to explain. Giving myself the chance to hear it.
But that would require believing there’s an explanation that doesn’t confirm what I already know.
People do what benefits them.
She needed a win. Carey needed leverage. And I handed them both exactly what they needed.
I zipped my bag closed and slung it over my shoulder. I don’t look back at the bed. I don’t look at the fireplace. I don’t allow myself to picture what the offseason in Scottsdale might have looked like.
I walk out of the chalet and close the door behind me without hesitation.
Running has always been easier than standing still and pretending not to see the pattern repeating itself.
And I’m done pretending.
The airport is efficient in a way that I appreciate.
Clean lines. Neutral tones. People focused on their own departures. No one lingered long enough to ask questions they didn’t want answered.
It’s cold inside the terminal, the kind of sterile chill that keeps everything impersonal. That helps. I don’t need warmth right now. I don’t need comfort.
