Page 80 of The Rehoboth Retreat
I’d handled a million of my own scandals. But this was the first time I’d ever been scared of dragging someone else into the blast radius.
Not just someone.
Him.
Miles Whitaker. The man who measured flour by the gram and emotions by the teaspoon. The man who made me breakfast while my foot looked like it had lost a bar fight. The man who had absolutely no business getting mixed up in my mess.
And yet… here we were.
I straightened my lapels and looked at myself again in the mirror. Hair sharp. Eyes dark. Outfit worthy of a black-tie gala.
And not a single fucking clue what to do next.
Well.
Maybe it was time to figure it out.
For him.
Miles
I slammed the door behind me harder than I meant to. The echo of it reverberated through the house like a judgment. Like a gavel. Like a sentence.
This retreat was supposed to be my sanctuary. My planned slice of calm. A place to recharge, to breathe, to—God forbid—heal. And now? Now it felt like a fucking crime scene.
I was still in my button-up shirt, my shoes still dusted with fine sand from the beach, my mouth still tingling faintly from the kiss—thatkiss—and yet I felt like I had aged ten years in a single hour.
I stood there in the foyer, phone in hand, seeing the texts from my assistant, colleagues, and friends coming through a mile a minute, still glowing like flames from hell.
“Miles, you need to call me.”
“Check Twitter now.”
“Damage control team says to say nothing for now.”
“I’m so sorry. I really thought this weekend would be quiet.”
Quiet. Right. Nothing saysquietlike being publicly crucified on social media in real-time.
I opened the app against my better judgment.
The comments were a nightmare kaleidoscope of venom, judgment, and smug moral superiority.
@StyleSnitch:So much for Mr. Perfect. Cheaters wear linen now.
@TeaAndTragedy:Can’t believe I bought his “healing trip” narrative just for him to be the betrayer.
@MartiniMouth:Not Miles Whitaker locking lips with someone who isn’t his husband?? Plot twist I didn’t want.
@HouseOfMilesFan:Welp. Unfollowed.
@PRQueen69:Hope the shrimp cocktail at the betrayal brunch was worth it.
I felt sick. My head pounded like I’d chugged gin on an empty stomach.
I heard my mother’s voice behind the other side of the door—concerned, maybe calling my name, I couldn’t process it—and I didn’t stop.
I leaned against the door, the lock clicking like a final heartbeat. My heart thudded violently in my chest. My fingers trembled as I tossed the phone onto the bed. It landed face down like it was ashamed of me, too.
