So why do I feel responsible?
And why did that goodbye feel like a beginning?
Black Cat is stationed by the door when I get home, his grumpiness radiating.
“Hey.” I toss my keys on the counter. “Miss me?”
He meows—a sound that roughly translates to:My dinner is late. You’ll be hearing from my attorney.
“You have an automatic feeder. You’re literally the least neglected creature in Brooklyn.” But the kibble won’t cut it. He wants his wet food, served on his stainless-steel platter, the bougie little beast.
Another demanding meow.
“Fine,” I grumble, fully recognizing who owns whom. I don’t have a cat, I have a furry overlord.
I fork tuna into his bowl and watch him attack it like it’s personally wronged him. Even with Black Cat’s coos of appreciation between the satisfied smacking sounds while he eats, the apartment feels too quiet. Too small.Too alone.
I check my phone again and am disappointed to see #CheaterCharlie still trending and on the rise. I read the comments, looking for the unsung heroes defending her, urging the trolls not to jump to conclusions because hugging someone isn’t a crime. But the unsung heroes are buried under the avalanche of hate and negativity. All of this over a hug… No wonder Charlie hates the spotlight. It never highlights the good. Only the unhinged.
I have to get in touch, somehow. I need to figure out a way to help, or at least promise Charlie she has my discretion. I should?—
Knock, knock.
I freeze. No one knocks. The building has a buzzer, and my friends would’ve texted before they showed up to make sure I had beer.
Another knock. Sharp. Impatient.
Who the fuck?
Trying to keep my footsteps quiet, I make my way to the door and check the peephole.
A woman. Tall, angular, red-brown hair pulled back in a tight, low ponytail. Structured blazer. Silk blouse. The kind of understated elegance that indicates she’s important. Even her posture radiates authority—arms crossed, chin lifted, the expression of someone who bills by the hour and deeply resents every second she’s wasting. Oh fuck—she’s giving lawyer vibes. Maybe she’s here on Charlie’s behalf to serve me a gag order. Hiring an escort can’t look good for her reputation, but I’lljust calmly explain nothing happened and no money changed hands…
I slowly pull open the door. “Yes?”
Her eyes sweep over me, cataloging the paint-speckled jeans, the rumpled shirt, whatever haunted expression I’m currently wearing. The assessment takes two seconds. I don’t pass. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” she mumbles under her breath. “Taio Wilkes.” She says my name like a statement, not a question.
I answer anyway. “That’d be me.”
“I’m Sage Hilston, the head of Charlie Riley’s PR team.” Her eyes narrow, her tone is ice, wrapped in smooth silk. “We need to talk. Or, more accurately, you need to listen.”
chapter 8
Taio
My brain is sending emergency alerts to every nerve ending—slam the door, change your name, flee the country—but I swallow hard and wave Sage into my apartment with all the enthusiasm of a man inviting in a tax auditor.
She crosses the threshold like she’s entering a crime scene, carefully assessing and cataloging every detail for future evidence. Her eyes sweep across the cramped living room, lingering on the secondhand couch with its suspicious stains, the coffee table propped up by a Stephen King paperback, my dog-eared romance book with the pink flowers I forgot to hide, and the general ambiance of “man who has given up on impressing anyone.”
From his perch on the kitchen counter, Black Cat arches his back at the sight of Sage, releasing a hiss that is undoubtedly full of cat cuss words.
I gesture toward the kitchen counter. “Meet Black Cat. Don’t take the hissing personally—this is him being sociable.”
Sage’s eyebrow arches. “You actually named your cat…Black Cat? Seems lazy.” She unsubtly glances around my moderately tidy, could-be-worse apartment.
“It’s not lazy. It’s quantum physics. Until I give him a real name, he exists in a state of both being and not being my cat.” I shrug. “You know…like Schrödinger’s cat.”
“I don’t think that’s what Schrödinger’s cat represents.” The words drip with judgment.
