“You don’t owe me anything.”
The words come out flat. Controlled. Final.
Her brows knit together. Hurt blooms across her face, quick and unmistakable. Like I struck something fragile without meaning to.
“Cam, I—”
I walk toward the exit, each step feeling heavier than the last. The echo of her voice stays lodged in my chest, right next to the image of her smiling up at someone else like the world finally made sense.
The old wound tears open.
The one that says: You were useful. Not chosen.
I clench my jaw and keep walking.
I don’t look back.
Chapter twenty-seven
Lila
The car is too quiet.
I sit rigid in the back seat, hands folded too neatly in my lap, like it might keep things from spilling. The driver’s partition is up. Privacy glass. To give us space.
Cam sits beside me.
I can feel him even when he’s not looking at me. The tension in his body. The way his knee bounces, restless and sharp, like something in him can't sit still.
Streetlights slide past in slow streaks. Gold. White. Blur.
I should say something neutral. I don’t. I let him speak first.
“So,” Cam says. “Bas.”
I turn my head slowly. "What about him?”
My voice comes out even. But I’m not calm. I’m braced.
“The hugging,” he says. “The way you lit up.”
Something in my chest tightens.
I exhale through my nose. “Cam.”
He waits.
“He’s a songwriter,” I say. “One of my main collaborators.”
“So?”
I look at him fully now. Brows lifting despite myself. “We work together.”
“You don’t light up like that with everyone you work with.”
The words sting.
My mouth tightens. “Wow.”
