“Is it true you refused mediation?”
“Are you cooperating with investigators?”
“Did you threaten her?”
Sharp. Heavy. Aimed at whatever shred of dignity I have left.
I keep my expression neutral. That’s the trick. Give them nothing. Don’t flinch. Don’t feed the machine.
But today, the noise is too close. The questions are too sharp. The flashes are too bright. My skin prickles like I’m under a heat lamp.
I square my shoulders and keep moving, head down, jaw locked. I’m not afraid of them. I’m angry at them. That’s different.
I open my mouth to say the usual line—no comment, talk to the team rep—when a voice cuts through the frenzy from somewhere behind the pack.
“Lila! LILA!”
The sound is so unexpected my body goes still.
It isn’t one voice. It’s several, stacking on top of each other, the way a crowd changes shape when it smells something new.
“Lila, look here!”
“Lila, what are you doing here?”
“Lila—give me a smile!”
My stomach drops.
I turn my head.
And there she is.
She steps around a black SUV at the edge of the lot, security forming a loose shield around her like they’re trying to hide the sun with their bodies. Her hair is pulled into a sleek ponytail. Her sunglasses are huge, covering most of her face. She’s wearing a cream sweater and dark jeans, simple enough that if she wasn’ther, she could blend in.
She does not blend in.
Even from here, I can see the tension in her shoulders. The way she holds herself like she expects the world to lunge.
My pulse spikes, hot and fast.
The moment the paparazzi realize she’s walking toward me, the energy flips.
Accusation dissolves into glee. Like my scandal was yesterday’s meal and now they’ve been served dessert.
“Are you two dating?”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Is this serious?”
“Did she come for you?”
“Are you in love?”
My first instinct is to laugh at the absurdity, because love is not what this is. Love is not what I do anymore.
Lila doesn’t answer a single question. She doesn’t even slow down.
