Page 82 of The Rehoboth Retreat
HUDSON??:
Hey… I saw everything. I’m so sorry.
Ping.
HUDSON??:
I had no idea those pictures were being taken. You didn’t deserve this, Miles.
Ping.
HUDSON??:
Can we please talk over dinner? Just us. No cameras. No drama.
Ping.
HUDSON??:
I’ll make it up to you. I promise. Just… please don’t spiral. Things can be fixed.
Ping.
HUDSON??:
It’s not the end of the world. I know it feels like it. But trust me, I’ve survived worse press than this. You’re going to be okay.
I stared at the messages, my thumb hovering over the screen. The polite part of me—yes, the same part that sent handwritten thank-you cards to Uber drivers—wanted to type something. Anything. A “Thanks.” Or maybe a “Not now.” But I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
My fingers trembled. My chest tightened again, the sting of fresh tears welling up. My stomach ached from sobbing.
This… this wasn’t supposed to happen. This was what Ineverallowed to happen. My life had rules. Systems. Many organized calendars. Daily mantras. Perfect light angles for Instagram. Signature fonts. I’d built an entire empire out of control.
And now? I was an internet punchline.
Acheatermeme.
Because I let myself get caught up in spontaneity. Because I kissed someone who made me forget about everything for one stupid moment.
Because I wentoff-script.
I threw the phone across the bed like it burned me. Hudson’s texts sat there like they were breathing, pulsing.
“He wanted to talk over dinner?”
How dare he make it sound so casual, as if I hadn’t just had my entire career detonated online like some Real Housewives plot twist.
I sat up abruptly, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and gripping the edge like the world might tip.
How could he be so calm?
“Things can be fixed.”
“It’s not the end of the world.”
Did heknowwho I was? Did he have any idea what I’ve spent years creating? The sponsorships. The endorsements. The immaculate image.
Everything had a script.
