Page 7 of The Rehoboth Retreat
My phone buzzed an hour later.
Mom:It’s available two weekends from now. I’ll book it for you. You’re going to love it.
I grinned. This was going to be my reprieve. I set my phone down and began thinking about the beach house. It was everything I needed—an 8,500-square-foot mansion with stunning views. This was a house for someone who demanded the best.
I smiled as I imagined the waves crashing outside, the wind in my hair, and enjoying dinner under the stars. It was exactly the fresh start I needed—a clean slate.
And with that, I finally felt the weight of the world lifting—just a little.
Hudson
Jesus Christ, the smell in this office was enough to give me a migraine.Perfume. Like, not just one spritz—I’m talkin’ full shower-level saturation. Chanel, Tom Ford, and probably whatever $800 bottle some intern stole off her influencer boss last week. And all of it? Smothered in tension thicker than the Botox in Beverly Hills.
Walking into Apex Talent Management felt like entering the belly of the beast. The kind of beast with gold accents, imported espresso, and air conditioning set to Arctic Blast. The receptionist, a wax statue of a woman named Reagan or Raegan or whatever, didn’t even glance up as I strutted in. Not that I expected a warm welcome. My face had been plastered all over social media all week—tabloid headlines screaming:HUDSON KNIGHT: HEARTBREAKER OR HOMEWRECKER?
Fuck.
I knew what I was walking into. Celeste Sterling had summoned me. Whenshesummons, you go. Doesn’t matter if your soul’s leaking out your ears from your latest PR disaster or if you’re still drunk from last night’s tequila-and-self-pity combo. You show up.
The click of my boots echoed through the marble hallway like I was walking into court. And in a way, I was. Celeste’s office door was already open.
Bad sign.
She never left it open unless she was prepping for war. Her lair was a modern temple to efficiency and intimidation: minimalist design, angular furniture, and a view of the Hollywood Hills so perfect it looked photoshopped. A faint citrus scent hung in the air like someone had Febreezed away the tears of C-list actors.
Celeste sat behind her glass-and-chrome desk like aBond villain in couture. Petite, platinum-blonde, and ferocious. Her hair was a waterfall of controlled chaos. That day, she wore an Oscar de la Renta navy pantsuit so sharp it could cut glass and heels so red they might as well have been dipped in blood. Her nails tapped the desk like an executioner counting down.
“Hudson, Hudson, Hudson,” she said without looking up. Just my name repeatedly. Like a curse.
I sank into the chair across from her and sprawled like I was still in control, which I wasn’t. The chair was too stiff for comfort, and the tension in the room could’ve been sold in bricks. I tried to keep my poker face, but I knew I looked like shit. Even my five o’clock shadow had a hangover.
Then she looked up. And fuck me sideways; if looks could kill, I’d be on a slab.
“Hudson, what thefuckwere you thinking?”
“Oh, come on,” I muttered, crossing my arms. “You act like I punched a nun.”
“You might as well have.” Her eyes, a glacial shade of blue, narrowed. “You broke up with Jackson Pierce and then had the audacity to get caught leaving The Belmont with that underwear model—the next day?”
“I didn’tget caught,” I grumbled. “We were getting fries.”
“At midnight. In West Hollywood. While holding hands. Wearingmatching hoodies, Hudson.”
I rolled my eyes. “He borrowed mine. Jesus.”
Celeste slammed her hand on the desk, sending a crystal pen holder wobbling. “You just gave America the queer breakup sequel toGone Girl. You think your fans care about nuance? They want a love story, not a tabloid headline about the ‘bad boy who broke Golden Jackson’s heart.’”
I leaned back and ran a hand through my hair. “Jackson’s a manipulative prick. He paints himself like Saint Twinkletoes but behind closed doors? Dude’s got more red flags than a fucking communist parade.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she snapped. “Perception is reality. Jackson is the wounded gazelle. You’re the lion with a dick pic problem.”
I barked a laugh. “Thatwasn’ta dick pic. It was art.”
Celeste’s expression didn’t budge. “It was a mirror selfie with your cock half-out in a Gucci thong.”
“So?”
“So, until this cools down, no one wants to touch you with a ten-foot pole—unless it’s on OnlyFans. And I amthisclose to telling you to make the jump.”
