Page 108 of Rockstar's Fake Engagement

But the truth is, I don’t know how. Not when everything feels so raw, so unfinished.

I force myself to start the car, gripping the wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white. The drive back to Nate’s place is a blur, the city lights bleeding together as my mind replays every second of the fight. Every sharp word, every moment his face hardened, every time I saw him slip further and further away from me.

By the time I reach Nate’s house, exhaustion crashes over me in waves. I don’t know why I drove here instead of heading to my parents’ place in St. Augustine. Maybe because this place, withits quiet seclusion, feels more like home than anywhere else. But the second I step inside, the emptiness is unbearable.

The silence presses in on me, louder than any screaming match could ever be. I walk out to the deck, letting the crashing of the waves soothe me—but they don’t—they can’t. I stand there a long time.

Finally feeling the chill wind off the ocean, I walk back inside the house. I glance at the clock. It’s been hours, and Nate still isn’t home. What does that mean? How much space and time does he need?

The exhaustion weighs me down, but sleep feels impossible. I crawl into bed anyway, pulling the covers up to my chin, but the sheets are cold, untouched. I hug myself tightly as if I can physically hold together the pieces of my breaking heart. The ache in my chest feels unbearable, like something has been wrenched from deep inside me, leaving behind a hollow space that throbs with every breath. Nate’s absence is a stark reminder of everything that’s gone wrong. I toss and turn, my mind looping through every word of our fight, every flicker of pain in his eyes. My stomach churns, and my chest tightens until it feels like I can’t breathe.

I finally close my eyes and force myself to relax, but rest doesn’t come easy. Minutes turn into hours. The house is eerily silent, and the bed feels too big, too empty. Eventually, exhaustion wins, and I drift off into a restless sleep.

When I wake, the room is still dark, the air thick and heavy. My limbs feel leaden, my head foggy, like I’ve been drugged. A glance at the clock sends a fresh wave of panic through me—Nate still hasn’t come home. He’s been out all night. The realization settles over me like ice water, jolting me fully awake. Where is he? And why does it feel like something has shifted irreversibly between us?

The weight of Nate’s absence from the house settles over me like a lead blanket, suffocating and impossible to shake as I drag myself from the bed.

I take a deep breath and pull out my phone. I want to call him. I want to fix this. But what would I even say? That I’m sorry? That I didn’t mean to hurt him? That I miss him already? Goodbye?

My throat tightens, and I put my phone away, wondering if I may have pushed him too far—if I’ve lost him for good.

Nate’s words play over again in my mind, how he said he needed space right now. And as much as I don’t want to give it to him, I have to. He’s made that painfully clear by his absence.

A decision forms in my mind. One that makes my stomach clench, but I know it’s the right thing to do. My hands shake as I start pulling open drawers, stuffing my clothes inside my bags haphazardly. The weight in my chest grows heavier with every item I pack, but I don’t stop. I can’t. If I hesitate, I might break down altogether. Every piece of clothing, every item I brought here—it all goes into my suitcases.

By the time I have everything zipped up, my throat is tight. My heart hammering loudly in my chest.

I take one last look around. The house feels different now, like I no longer have the right to be here. My fingers brush over one of Nate’s leather jackets draped across the back of a chair, and for a split second, I think about taking it with me. But I don’t. I leave it exactly where it is.

The drive to the airport is quiet. The weight of Nate’s absence clings to me, pressing heavier with each passing mile. My body still feels sluggish from lack of sleep, my thoughts muddled with exhaustion and worry. I keep glancing at my phone, half-expecting a message from him, some sign that he came home, that he regrets walking away, that he regrets our fight as much as I do. But the screen remains dark, and the silence stretches on.

I don’t bother turning on the radio—I don’t need more noise. My mind is loud enough as it is. By the time I reach the terminal, I pull out my phone and finally text Rachel.

Me:‘I’m leaving. I’ve booked the next flight back to L.A. Tell production I want all my remaining scenes filmed in the next four weeks. Period. I don’t care how they rearrange the schedule, but after that, I’ll be reevaluating my contract with the company.’

The message is delivered, and within seconds, my phone buzzes with an incoming call. I ignore it. Then, another text follows.

Rachel:‘Lacey, we need to talk about this.’

I don’t answer. Instead, I grab my bags, lift my chin, and head toward my gate. It’s time to figure out what comes next for me.

Thirty-Four

Nate

The road stretches endlessly before me, headlights cutting through the darkness, but I barely register any of it. I’ve been driving all night, trying to outrun the weight of my own thoughts. It hasn’t worked.

By the time I pull into the driveway, exhaustion clings to me like a second skin. My body aches, and my hands are stiff from gripping the wheel, but I don’t hesitate as I step out of the car. I need to see Lacey.

The house is dark and quiet as I unlock the door and punch in the security code. For a split second, I think maybe she’s asleep. Maybe she needed space, too, and went to her parents’ place for the night. That thought steadies me—until I step inside and feel the shift.

Something’s wrong.

The air feels still, too still.

A nagging unease tightens in my gut as I head to the bedroom. The second I flick on the light, the truth slams into me like a wrecking ball.

Her side of the closet is empty. Her clothes, her shoes—gone. The small touches of her presence, the little things she left scattered around—her hairbrush on the dresser, her robe on the back of the door—vanished.

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