Cam looks at me for a long beat.
“You’ve thought about this,” he says.
I don’t shrug this time. I don’t deflect.
“I don't know how this works,” I say simply. “But I know people lose everything by waiting too long to fight back.”
And I don't want that to happen to you.
The melody swells — not loud. Certain.
Noah nods. “Defamation. Malicious prosecution. Possibly sanctions.”
Cam studies me. Really looks at me. Something shifts behind his eyes — not gratitude exactly. Something deeper.
He nods once. Sharp. Decisive.
“Okay,” he says.
Just that.
The lawyers move fast after that — filings, timelines, evidence locks. The room turns procedural. Controlled.
But under it all, the melody keeps playing.
Unbothered by my denial.
I close my eyes.
I’ve learned not to argue with a song.
Chapter eighteen
Cam
Charity events have rules.
You show up polished. You smile for the cameras. You talk about causes instead of conflicts, generosity instead of greed.
Everyone agrees—at least for a few hours—to behave like this room exists outside the mess of the real world.
Tonight’s cause is a children’s trauma recovery foundation. Soft lighting. Linen tablecloths. Crystal glasses. A room full of people who know how to look compassionate without breaking a sweat.
On paper, it’s perfect.
I’m here as Lila’s plus one.
Clean optics. All the positive PR without the messy stuff. Manny walked me through it twice like I was a rookie learning a playbook.
Smile. Walk. Eat. Leave.
We don’t even make it through the doors.
The press has been waiting—clustered just far enough back to pretend they’re respecting boundaries, close enough to pouncethe second they clock us. Cameras lift in near-perfect unison. Microphones come up like weapons.
“Cam—any update on the lawsuit?”
“Lila—your ex posted again this morning. Do you want to respond?”
