He knows this ends. Maybe he’s already stepping back.
I sit on the edge of the couch, hands folded in my lap like I’m waiting for news.
I open my phone and type his name.
Are you okay?
Delete.
About last night—
Delete.
Did I misread—
Delete.
I set the phone face-down.
By the time the city lights come on, the penthouse glows warm and golden. It should feel cozy. Safe.
Instead, I curl into the corner of the couch, knees tucked under me, feeling smaller than I did this morning.
He hasn’t come home.
And the thought slips in, quiet and cruel.
Maybe he won’t.
Not the way I want him to.
Chapter twenty
Cam
My phone starts vibrating before my eyes open.
Not one buzz. Not two.
A steady, relentless tremor against the nightstand, like something is trying to crawl its way into the room.
I grab it, already bracing. I have a slew of messages.
Brent. Noah. Team PR.
This can’t be good.
I sit up, thumb scrolling, sleep burning off fast and ugly.
Overnight, a tabloid drops what they’re callingexclusive deposition details.
Real documents. Real words.
Stripped of context. Rearranged like a crime scene puzzle where the picture on the box has been swapped out for something uglier.
Cold. Violent. Uncaring. That’s the version of me they’re selling this morning.
My jaw tightens as I read.
