Page 84 of The Rehoboth Retreat
Miles had spent his whole life cultivating something beautiful for himself. His career was polished and untouchable. His cocktails had themes. His outfits matched the food. Even the damn beach towels had a color story. And here I came, tracking sand through the gallery, knocking over antique vases with my social media stink and paparazzi filth andHudson is canceled againstench.
He didn’t ask for this.
Hell, I barely wanted this—and I’d signed up for it.
I was used to it. People loving me and loathing me in the same breath. One article about my workout routine followed by another dragging my name through cocaine-smeared mud. I’d been called everything fromunapologetically rawtoan infected paper cut on the gay community.
But Miles?
Miles was the kind of guy you handed a bouquet of peonies to and meant it. The kind you brought to dinner parties with people who readThe New Yorkerand pronouncedcharcuteriecorrectly. The kind whose fanbase followed him for his storage hacks and stayed for his earnest, linen-draped optimism.
And now he was in a scandal.
Because of me.
I grabbed the drink I’d poured earlier—something strong and vaguely herbal I’d tried to make look like one of his. But it wasn’t balanced. It wasn’t photogenic. It tasted like regret and leftover mouthwash.
I winced and dumped it in the sink.
Then came a knock at my front door.
Three sharp taps. Then a pause. Then two more.
Not the kind of knock from a neighbor. Or a fan. Or a cop, thank God. It was intentional. Like whoever was on the other side knew me well enough to know I’d consider not answering.
I shuffled to the door, still barefoot, half-buttoned, and praying it wasn’t another delivery of unsolicited fan mail or a topless dude with an OnlyFans proposition.
Instead—it was her.
Cecilia.
Wearing oversized sunglasses, a flowing caftan printed with flamingos and martini glasses, and holding what looked like a goblet of Sauvignon Blanc.
“Oh,” I said. “It’syou.I was starting to worry the Ghost of Publicity Ruined was finally here to collect.”
She didn’t laugh.
She looked serious. Not her usual arched-eyebrow, vodka-sarcasm serious—butmother hen turned dragon protectorserious.
“I need a word,” she said. “Preferably inside. Unless you want to discuss this with the breeze and the feral cat that keeps circling your trash bins.”
I stepped aside. “Enter the den of disgrace.”
She marched past me like she owned the place—because women like Cecilia always do—and planted herself on the barstool at the counter. I hovered by the sink, not entirely sure if I was about to be hit with a lawsuit, a death glare, or an ice pick.
“Is he mad?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
She sipped her wine like it was a blood oath. “He’s wrecked, Hudson.”
That hit harder than I expected.
She went on. “He’s locked himself in his room. Blinds drawn. Door barricaded. I tried everything—guilt, emotional blackmail, offering him cold lobster. Nothing worked.”
I scratched the back of my neck. “He’s not answering my texts.”
“No,” she said. “He’s not answeringanyone.But here’s the thing. He might open the door foryou.”
I blinked. “Why? So he can throw a candle at my head? Do you know how many angry people have thrown things at me? One guy launched a succulent.”
