Page 115 of Cold Feet
I drove home in a daze, the weight of the day pressing down on me like a physical thing. As I climbed the stairs to my condo, all I could think about was crawling into bed and hiding from the world. But first, I needed to make a call.
Marcus answered on the second ring. "Lana. How are you holding up?"
"I've been better," I admitted. "Marcus, I just want you to know I won't be coming in tomorrow."
"Of course not. Take as much time as you need."
"Thanks, but it's not just for me," I explained. "The press will be camped outside the training facility. If I'm visibly present, it just adds oxygen and video to the story."
"Smart thinking, as always," he said. "Where will you go? The media might track you down at home."
I sighed, already dreading the conversations to come. "I'm going to my parents' in Siesta Key. The neighborhood has good security, and I think we both know no reporter is getting past Frank Decker."
He chuckled. "Good. Your family should be with you right now." His voice softened. "And Lana? This will pass. You've built up too much goodwill in this league for one scandal to define you."
"I hope you're right," I said, not entirely convinced. "Thank you, Marcus. For everything today."
"This organization stands behind you. Remember that."
After we hung up, I sank onto my couch, too numb even to cry. Sid, my orange tabby, jumped up beside me, butting his head against my hand for attention.
"At least you still like me," I murmured, scratching behind his ears.
Everything I'd feared had come to pass. My professional reputation was in tatters. The line between personal and professional had become hopelessly blurred. And Cam... Cam was both the cause of it all and the one person who'd stood up for me when it mattered most.
The irony wasn't lost on me: I, Lana Decker, supposed PR director extraordinaire, was now at the center of the biggest PR disaster in Slashers history. All because I'd broken my own cardinal rule: Never get personally involved with a player.
But as I stood there in my darkened bedroom, fighting back tears while I packed an overnight bag for Siesta Key, I couldn't bring myself to regret it entirely. Not the family weekend at the beach. Not the quiet conversations under the stars. Not the feeling of Cam's arms around me, his lips on mine, the way he'd looked at me as if I were the only woman in the world.
Real or fake, it had still been worth it.
The doorbell rang, and I cautiously checked the peephole before opening the door. Zayne stood on the doorstep, bearing a pizza and a bottle of Blanton's bourbon, my big brother's signature crisis management toolkit. No matter how complicated our lives became, he'd always been there for me. And I knew without a doubt he always would.
“Hey dork,” he said sweetly.
And I burst into tears.
Chapter 21
The Skyway Bridge stretched before me like a metaphor for my life – a steep uphill climb followed by an inevitable, crushing descent.
I'd left St. Pete at dawn, unable to face another moment in my condo as my professional reputation burned to the ground in real time. My phone had buzzed incessantly until I'd finally silenced it, unable to stomach another notification about #FakeSlashers or another "insider" quote about how I was the evil mastermind behind Cam Murphy's moral corruption and career destruction.
The morning sky matched my mood perfectly. Heavy gray clouds threatening rain, the usually vibrant Gulf waters dull and choppy beneath the bridge. As I drove, memories of the last time I'd made this journey flashed through my mind: Cam beside me, his easy laughter filling the car, his hand finding mine across the center console when I got nervous about the height, the almost-kiss at the top of the bridge less than a week ago.
Now I was alone, the passenger seat occupied only by my hastily packed overnight bag and the crushing weight of humiliation.
The sapphire ring weighed down my finger, a constant reminder of what had been within my grasp for one life-changing night before it was all snatched away. A four-carat anchor I couldn't remove, just in case I was photographed by paparazzi. Even now, alone in my car, I had to maintain the façade that had already collapsed and threatened to bury me.
By the time I pulled into the shell-paved driveway of my parents' beach house, a light drizzle had started, droplets beading on my windshield like the tears I'd been fighting back for hours. I sat for a moment, engine off, gathering whatever fragments of composure I could find. The last thing I wanted was to fall apart the moment I saw my parents.
I'd texted them last night, a brief message saying I needed to get away for a day or two, and they'd responded with love and warmth, just like I knew they would.
MOM: Home is always here for you, sweetheart. We're here if you need us.
No questions, no judgments. Just unconditional support I wasn't sure I deserved after lying to them and dragging our previously unblemished family name through the mud.
Before I could reach for my bag, the front door opened, and my parents appeared on the porch. My father, stoic as ever in his polo shirt and golf shorts, and my mother in her gardening clothes, a concerned smile on her face. They didn't rush toward me or bombard me with questions. They simply waited, giving me the space to approach in my own time.
