My ex's voice sneaks into my thoughts—smug, mocking, dismissive. "You're lucky I stayed as long as I did, Lila. Most men wouldn't deal with your drama."
The memory carves fresh lines into old wounds. And now here I am, about to be matched—as if I'm the problem. Like I can't be trusted with my own choices.
At the end of the hallway, a frosted glass door slides open.
"Your match is already here," Evelyn says.
My heart trips over itself, suddenly beating too fast.
"Are you ready?"
No. Absolutely not. "Yes," I lie.
I step into the private meeting room... and the air leaves my lungs.
Camden Drake sits at the sleek conference table, broad shoulders tense beneath a fitted black shirt, jaw tight, his expression unreadable.
I know his face. From my ex-boyfriend's posters. Memorabilia. Jerseys. Endless ESPN commentary.
Reid worshipped him.
It hits me like a physical blow. My pulse roars in my ears. The room tilts. I can't breathe around the memories—late nights forced to watch games I didn't care about, arguments about how obsessed Reid was with Cam's stats, the way he compared every man to his football idol.
Including my past relationships.
Compared every woman to Cam's girlfriends.
Including me.
My throat tightens sharply. "No," I whisper before I can stop myself.
Camden looks up right then—eyes sharp, assessing, cool. Not cold, exactly, but distant in a way that scrapes against my insides. It isn't personal; I can tell. It's how he looks at everything. Everyone.
And somehow, that's worse.
It isn't his fault. But standing here, facing the embodiment of every insecurity Reid carved into me, I feel exposed. Raw. And profoundly unsafe in a way that has nothing to do with crazed fans.
Evelyn begins introductions, but I barely hear a word. My gaze keeps flicking involuntarily toward Camden, trying to gather my breath, trying to make sense of why he of all people is here.
He looks... uncomfortable. Annoyed. Like he hates this as much as I do.
He doesn't stand when I enter. Doesn't smile. Doesn't soften. He studies me like I'm a puzzle he already resents solving. His eyes flick briefly over my sparkly sweater and oversized sunglasses.
I can practically hear his thoughts: celebrity, drama, chaos.
My spine stiffens instinctively. I'm not a stereotype. I'm not whatever he thinks I am.
And yet I can feel the judgment radiating off him—or maybe I'm projecting. Maybe I'm unraveling.
I hate that I care at all.
"Please," Evelyn says, gesturing between us, "have a seat. This will be a conversation."
A conversation. This feels more like an execution.
I force myself forward, sinking carefully into the chair across from him. He leans back slightly, clearly bracing for something he doesn't want. I cross my legs and square my shoulders, determined not to shrink even though my heart is thundering too hard.
Evelyn folds her hands calmly. "Lila Hart," she says gently, turning to Camden. "This is Camden Drake. You two have been matched."
