Valerie’s words echo in my mind. I’ll think about it.
They’re not enough to count on, especially when Valerie owes me nothing. I sealed that fact the moment I rejected her kiss. Whatever she decides tomorrow, she’ll decide it for herself, and she’d be right to. I just hope she takes me into account, not just Damon.
Somewhere in this villa, Lyla is thinking about me, about us. I know it the same way I’ve always known things about her. It’s not logical, just a gut feeling. I’d be an idiot not to think she’s turning over what we talked about. That she’s building her walls back up brick by careful brick.
And if that’s true, and she ends up choosing Damon despite my efforts, I don’t know what I’ll do.
Chapter Sixteen
Lyla
* * *
The outdoor lounge is scattered with drinks, half-faked laughter, and the low hum of cameras that never really turn off. Warm string lights shimmer over the pool, turning every ripple of water into liquid gold—designed, I’m sure, to make emotional breakdowns entertaining.
I’m curled into the corner of the sectional, pretending to sip a drink that tastes like nothing. Damon sits beside me, close but never touching, his steady presence usually a balm. Tonight, it only makes the tension under my skin feel sharper, like a live wire humming too close to water.
Conversation drifts the way it always does this late—loose, aimless, everyone filling the silence because nobody wants to look boring on cable television.
Ava saunters in from the production hallway, fresh drink in hand and the glossy-eyed energy of someone who’s just found out something juicy. She drops onto the chair across from us, legs crossed, lips already curving.
“Okay.” She scans the group with a satisfied little smirk. “Has anyone else wandered past the monitor bank in the back hallway?”
A few people shrug, mild interest at best.
“Scott and Valerie.” Ava raises her brows, letting the names hang like bait. “I only caught a little bit of it, but I just gotta say… That private terrace setup did not go to waste.”
I freeze. Ice slides down my spine and pools low in my belly. My chest burns.
“Girl, spill,” Kylie demands.
Ava takes a slow, theatrical sip. “Valerie shot her shot. And from what I saw on the feed”—she pauses just long enough for the group to lean in—“it was getting spicy.”
Laughter ripples. Someone whoops. Another calls Valerie bold, like it’s a compliment instead of a knife.
I stare at the condensation sliding down my glass, watching droplets race each other the way my pulse is racing in my throat. The words sink in slowly, as if cold water was filling my lungs—not a shock, but a gradual, suffocating chill.
Underneath the hurt, something uglier blooms. Jealousy so sharp it tastes metallic. Because for one stupid night, I let myself believe every word he growled against my skin. It mattered. More than you know.
I should have known better.
A decade of scars, and I still let him split me open again with nothing but that velvety voice and those strong, sure hands. Now I’m right back where I swore I’d never be—falling into pieces while he’s somewhere at a candlelight dinner, no doubt with another woman’s mouth on his.
To think I’d sworn I’d never let myself feel this way again.
I’m older, but apparently no wiser.
I force my face into a neutral expression and take a slow sip of my drink, which tastes more like ash with each second that passes.
“Lyla.” Emily’s voice is soft, close. She crouches beside my knees, eyes searching mine.
I flash her the smile I’ve perfected for brides who are one wrong napkin shade away from a meltdown—small, bright, bulletproof. But Emily doesn’t blink. Her expression doesn’t change.
“I’m okay,” I lie, throat tightening around the words. “Really.”
She stays quiet, rubbing slow circles on my arm like she’s waiting for the dam to crack. For one weak second, I almost lean in. Almost let the sting behind my eyes spill over.
Then anger surges—hot, clean, aimed squarely at myself—and I straighten.
