Page 89 of The Rehoboth Retreat
And look how well that turned out.
Still, I couldn’t deny that they were right—she and Hudson both. As much as I hated the idea of airing my personal life to the world, the truth was… this wasn’t going away. The internet had already eaten its appetizer. If I didn’t give it a main course, it would just start inventing side dishes.
After speaking with my publicist and going over the plan with her, I sat back down on the bed and stared at the phone in my hand for a while. The polished screen, the fingerprints smudged across it—so symbolic of my life. Carefully maintained, but never immune to damage.
I opened Instagram first. Drafted a caption in Notes and reread it five times. Then I opened Twitter. Same thing. Facebook was last—an obligatory third cousin in this social media family.
Each post had a slight variation, but the message was the same:
To my wonderful community—after much reflection and with deep respect, I want to share that Owen and I have been separated for some time now and recently divorced. Our decision was mutual, and while it’s been private, it is also real. I ask for your kindness and understanding as I embark on the next chapter in my life. Thank you for your continued love and support.
– Miles
I didn’t mention Hudson. I didn’t mention a kiss or a scandal or the paparazzi leeches who had clearly been lurking in the dunes with lenses longer than my mother’s caftans.
I gave them the storyIwanted told.
Strong. Stoic. Elegant.
Because if there was one thing I wouldn’t do—it was fall apart publicly. I would not become a meme. I would not become a case study onhow-to-lose-a-brand-in-ten-days.
I was Miles Whitaker.
And this? This would not define me.
I leaned back on the tufted beige headboard, fingers still trembling slightly, but the pressure in my chest had eased. Just a little.
Hudson and my mother… somehow, they had been right. Maybe not about everything—but about this.
About owning it. About not lettingitownme.
I wasn’t ready to go downstairs yet. I needed another moment, maybe ten. I needed to breathe in the silence of my room, where the walls still smelled faintly of the eucalyptus oil I kept in a diffuser beside the bed.
Also, I needed to post a video. My fans and followers would appreciate that. Something raw and live. So, I decided to do just that.
The hardest part was pressingrecord.
I’d rehearsed the words in my head maybe twenty times, pacing across my room like a deranged stage actor before the curtain. The curtains themselves were drawn halfway, casting soft, natural stripes across the bedspread, and my phone—propped up against a stack of books on my nightstand—stared back at me like an audience already full of judgment.
But this wasn’t going to be a performance.
It couldn’t be.
That was the entire point.
I took one more breath, smoothed the wrinkle in my shirt, and hit the button.
“Hi, everyone,” I began, voice quieter than usual. No cheerful music. No polished intro graphics. Just me. No filters. No flawless backdrop. Just a sliver of the bedroom wall behind me and my slightly puffy eyes.
“I wasn’t planning on going live today,” I said, letting my fingers tighten around the hem of my sleeve, grounding myself. “In fact, I wasn’t planning on sharing this at all. Not now. Not like this.”
I paused for a breath—long, intentional.
“But sometimes life forces you out of your perfectly curated timeline and into something messier. Raw. Real. And I guess… this is that moment.”
I shifted, looking directly into the lens now. I didn’t blink.
“Owen and I have been separated for a while, and weareofficially divorced. It was mutual. It was private. And it was deeply personal. I chose not to make a public announcement because I wanted to protect the parts of our lives that were still tender. But after this weekend… after the pictures, the assumptions, the headlines—I realized silence would only lead to more noise.”
