Miles gives a humorless snort. “Figured.”
Shame burns through me so hot I feel nauseous. “Is he really okay?” I ask again, softer this time. “Miles, please.”
He sighs, a long, tired sound. “Yes.”
Relief hits me so hard my eyes sting.
“He got wasted,” Miles continues, “but on booze. Nothing else.”
I close my eyes. “Thank God.”
“He got rushed,” Miles adds, voice tight. “Fans got too close. Some asshole tried to grab him. Vinny got him out.”
My stomach flips. “Is he hurt?”
“No,” Miles says. “Just… pissed. Embarrassed. And he’s not in the mood to babysit you through another meltdown.”
I flinch. “I don’t need babysitting.”
Miles laughs without humor. “Sure.”
I swallow hard. “Tell him I’m sorry.”
Silence. Then Miles says, quieter, “You keep doing this to him.”
Sorrow sinks low in my chest. “I know.”
“And you keep doing it to yourself too,” he adds, voice louder and edged with something almost like pity. “Whatever you’re so scared of, it’s eating you alive.”
I freeze, as does Marco next to me. I glance at him, and his gaze sharpens like a blade. He heard that. I can see it in the way his posture shifts, in the way his eyes lock onto my face with sudden, devastating clarity.
Miles keeps talking, not realizing that he’s just cracked my life open in front of someone who isn’t supposed to know.
“He loves you,” Miles says, voice rough. “He does. That’s the problem. He keeps letting you pull him into your fear.”
My throat closes. Marco’s still staring, and I can’t breathe.
Miles exhales again. “Look. He’s safe. He’s at his parents’ place. He told Vinny he’s not going anywhere today. He’s… cooling off.”
“What’s the address?” I ask quickly.
“Don’t,” Miles snaps. “You’re not showing up there with your drama. Let him breathe.”
“I just—” My voice breaks. “Today is?—”
“I know what today is,” Miles cuts in. “We all know what today is.”
My stomach drops. I stare at the carpet, throat burning, because there it is again: proof that I’m the only one still trying to keep this marriage in a sealed box.
Miles’s voice hardens. “Handle your PR shit, ’cause yes, I heard about the fight. Handle your consequences. Then figure out if you actually want to be his husband.”
The line goes dead, and I lower my phone slowly. The room is silent except for the hum of the air conditioner.
Marco’s face is unreadable, but his eyes are intense, searching. “Ollie,” he says quietly.
I don’t answer. Because if I do, the truth will come spilling out, and I’m not ready for that. Not with PR in less than an hour. Not with my life already collapsing.
I stare at the phone in my hand like the dead line might reconnect if I just will it hard enough. My pulse is pounding, and I realize with sick clarity that I might have just lost control of more than a fight. I might have lost control of the secret itself. My hand is still raised, elbow bent, the position frozen mid-failure. My chest feels hollow, and my throat burns.
