"okay but... this?"

I sat cross-legged on the living room couch, holding my phone exactly six inches from my face. My thumb hovered over the screen. I had already analyzed the photo twice.

It was blurry. Paparazzi-grade static, the kind that made everything look infinitely more damning than it probably was. Julian’s hand rested low on Scarlett Vance’s waist as they walked off the studio lot. Scarlett’s head tipped toward his shoulder. Her mouth was open, laughing at a joke.

The caption underneath, posted by a fan account with forty thousand followers.

I locked the screen. I placed the phone face-down on the table.

Five seconds passed. I snatched the device right back up.

I told myself it didn't mean anything. Costars touched each other all the time. I knew that better than anyone. I had done it myself in a hundred different scenes where I couldn't even remember the blocking anymore. It was a job. It was nothing.

My thumb hovered over the photo again anyway.

The brass lock in the front door clicked.

I jumped, dropping the phone deep into the couch cushions like I had been caught stealing. It was stupid. It was my phone. He was my boyfriend. This was my life.

"Hey," Julian called out from the entryway.

His voice carried that hollow exhaustion that only came after a fourteen-hour shoot day. His keys clattered into the entryway console. Silence followed. He was checking his own phone before he even took his shoes off. For some reason, tonight, the quiet tapping grated against my spine.

He rounded the corner. He still wore his heavy jacket. His dark hair stuck out in odd angles from the wardrobe department pulling pieces over his head all afternoon.

The tightness in my chest vanished.

That was the maddening part. Even now, right in the middle of a private spiral, one look at his face and my muscles surrendered. My body just relaxed. Like it had been trained to.

"Long day?" I asked.

"You have no idea." He crossed the rug and dropped onto the cushions beside me.

Before I could fully pivot to face him, his arm banded around my shoulders. He hauled me against his side, his chin finding its familiar resting place on the top of my head.

"I saw the thing," Julian said. "The photo. My publicist already texted me eleven times about it."

"I wasn't going to bring it up."

"You were thinking about it, though."

He shifted, pulling back just enough to catch my eye. His expression shifted into the exact look he always used. Soft around the edges. A little rueful. It was the exact face that had made forty million people fall in love with him in *Coldwater Bridge*.

"Wren. It's PR," he said, his tone gentle. "The studio wants a ship trending before the premiere, so they're feeding it. That's all this is."

"I know how it works," I said.

And I did. I had been in this industry long enough to know the machine ran on manufactured chemistry. It survived on carefully leaked candids and stories that existed for exactly as long as they were useful. I knew all of that in my head.

My stomach still flipped every time I saw his hand on her waist.

"I need you to actually believe me, though," Julian said.

His thumb brushed along my jaw, tilting my face upward.

"Because I need you to know," he continued, his voice dropping an octave. "I am not going to let anything happen. Nothing. I swear to you."

He said the words while staring at a spot just past my left ear.

I noticed the shift in his gaze. I filed the details away in a mental box I absolutely refused to open tonight. Instead of pulling back, instead of asking why he couldn't quite look me in the eye when he made promises, I let my weight sink fully into his chest. I reached for the comfort he offered. The alternative felt like poking at a wound I didn't want to measure.

"Okay," I whispered. "I believe you."

Julian exhaled like he had been holding his breath for a mile. He pressed a kiss to my temple. For one warm second, the gesture felt like enough.

Then he stood up.

He grabbed the lapels of his jacket and shrugged out of the heavy fabric, tossing it toward the corner armchair.

Something slipped free from the inside pocket. It fluttered to the hardwood floor between us.

A folded slip of cream-colored hotel stationery. A room number scrawled across the center in sharp, slanted handwriting. Handwriting that definitely did not belong to him.

Julian moved fast. Faster than the moment should have required.

He crouched and snatched the paper off the floor before my eyes could even fully track the digits. He straightened up, a bright, easy laugh already loaded on his lips.

"The location's assistant left that in my jacket last week," he said, waving the paper dismissively. "Some room blocks for the press junket."

He balled the cream stationery in his fist. He lobbed it toward the kitchen trash can without looking.

The paper ball missed the plastic rim. It bounced off the lower cabinet door and rolled straight under the fridge.

Neither of us moved to retrieve it.

"Anyway," Julian said, clapping his hands together once. "I'm starving. You want Thai?"

"Sure," I said.

My eyes stayed fixed on the tiny sliver of white paper visible in the shadow of the fridge. A beat too long passed before I forced myself to look away.

I dug my phone out of the couch cushions. My fingers shook slightly as I opened the delivery app. I ordered pad see ew. I told myself, very firmly, that I was being paranoid.

Julian Cross did not lie to me. Julian Cross had shown up to my tiny off-off-Broadway show two years ago when I was a complete nobody and he was already a household name. He had texted me good morning every single day since, even through a chaotic award season and back-to-back location shoots. That man did not sneak random room numbers into his jacket pocket for no reason.

I believed that. Mostly.

Hours later, Julian fell asleep on his stomach. One heavy arm rested across my waist.

I lay wide awake. I stared at the shadows moving across the ceiling. I ran through the last three months in my head, trying to calculate exactly how many times he had asked me to just trust him.

I fell asleep before I got anywhere close to an answer that made me feel safe.

***

My phone vibrated against the nightstand at 6:47 the next morning.

I reached for it on pure instinct. My thumb swiped the notification open before I was even fully conscious. A new post trended on Twitter, sitting at number three under my "For You" tab.

The space beside me in bed was empty.

Julian had mentioned an early call time last night. He had kissed my forehead in the dark before slipping out, making sure not to wake me.

I blinked at the bright screen.

The photo was clearer this time. Julian's hand no longer rested casually on Scarlett's waist. His fingers were spread wide, gripping her hip, pulling her half a step closer as they climbed into the back of a blacked-out SUV together. They were completely alone. No crew stood in the frame. No cameras rolled in the background to justify the embrace.

The quote-tweet attached to the top of the image already had eleven thousand likes.

**"the PR excuse only works if there's a camera crew standing three feet away lol. this looks like a date."**

I sat up slowly. The heavy duvet slid off my shoulders.

I looked at the empty dent in Julian's pillow.

I read the caption again. And again.

My stomach didn't flip over this time. It didn't twist or burn. It just went very, very still.

"I think we're ready," Julian murmured.

His palm slid down my bare arm. The bedroom's dim gold lamp cast long shadows over his face. Three nights ago, a touch like that would have melted my spine. Tonight, I just felt managed. Handled.

"Ready for what?" I asked, keeping my voice flat.

"For more." He leaned in, his lips brushing my collarbone. "I want to be with you, Wren. All the way."

The shape of his request settled heavy in my chest. A cold knot twisted beneath my ribs, completely ignoring the heat of his mouth against my skin.

I shifted back, putting an inch of space between us. "Can we wait a little longer?"

"Wait?" He paused, his hand stalling on my elbow. "Why?"

"I just want to be sure." I met his gaze. "About us. About everything going on right now."

For exactly half a second, his jaw turned to stone.

If I hadn't been watching him like a hawk, I would have missed it. His entire frame went rigid. A tiny muscle in his left cheek flexed. Then, the tension vanished, replaced by a mask of practiced, easy patience.

"Of course," he said.

His smile arrived a fraction of a heartbeat too late.

"Whatever you need." He kissed the center of my forehead. "I've got you."

He rolled over, pulling the duvet up to his shoulders. Within three minutes, his breathing dropped into the slow, steady rhythm of deep sleep.

I lay awake for hours. I stared at the broad curve of his back. I hated how much that half-second delay cost me, wishing I could un-know the exact moment my boyfriend became a stranger.

***

"Hey, did you get the drive link?"

My phone buzzed on the desk with a text from Julian's assistant, Mark.

"Just sent it to the group chain," the next message read. "Raw dailies and the blooper reel for the wrap party."

"Got it," I typed back.

I clicked the link out of pure muscle memory. I kept one eye on my inbox and let the video play on my phone screen. Slapstick mistakes. Missed marks. Actors tripping over cables.

Then the scene cut.

"And... action," the director's voice echoed through the tiny speaker.

Scarlett stood next to Julian. The camera rolled, capturing a quiet moment between takes. Her fingers rested lightly on his forearm.

One second passed. Then two. Then three.

"You missed your cue," Scarlett whispered.

Her voice barely registered over the background noise, but the mic caught it.

Julian didn't step back. He didn't shake off her touch. Instead, he let out a low, private chuckle. It was a sound he hadn't made around me in weeks.

"Cut! Let's reset," the director yelled.

They still didn't separate.

I hit replay.

I watched her fingers grip his arm again. I listened to that intimate, secret laugh. My hands turned to ice. My teeth ground together so hard my temples throbbed.

My thumb hovered over the share icon. I wanted to send it to him. I wanted to demand an explanation. Then my thumb drifted to the trash bin icon.

I tapped neither.

I locked the screen and shoved the phone across the desk.

"It's nothing," I told the empty room. "They're costars. It's chemistry."

I repeated the lie out loud, hoping the sound of my own voice would make it true.

***

"Julian, where is your phone charger?" I shouted down the hallway.

"Should be on the nightstand!" he called back from the kitchen.

It was Thursday night. He had a 4:00 AM call time two towns over, and I was packing his canvas overnight bag. It was a domestic chore I usually loved. Tonight, it felt like a trap.

I unzipped the interior pocket to check for his spare battery pack. My knuckles brushed against folded paper.

I pulled it out.

Cream stationery. The exact same heavy paper that had tumbled out of his jacket days ago. The same sharp, slanted handwriting.

*Room 1408. Don't be late. — S.*

I stopped breathing. I stood frozen on the bedroom rug. I stared at the dark ink until the numbers blurred together. My pulse hammered a frantic, uneven rhythm against my ribs. A weird buzzing noise filled my ears, drowning out the distant hum of the refrigerator.

I read the words again. The message didn't change.

I marched down the hall.

Julian leaned against the granite counter, scrolling through his phone.

"Explain this," I said.

I shoved the paper right under his nose. I watched his eyes track the ink. I waited for the flinch. I waited for the half-second delay.

He barely even blinked.

"That?" He grabbed the note from my fingers. "That's from the location scout."

"A location scout named S?" I asked, my voice dangerously quiet.

"Sarah," he answered without missing a beat. "She handles the room blocks."

"And Sarah leaves handwritten notes in your bags?"

"She handed it to me on set, Wren. I shoved it in there." He crumpled the thick paper into a tight ball. "Half the crew is staying at that hotel."

He tossed it toward the trash can. It went right in.

"The note says 'don't be late'," I pointed out.

"To the morning briefing," he shot back, his tone dipping into annoyance. "We have a twenty-person crew meeting at dawn."

He leaned forward, planting both hands on the granite counter.

"You're being weird, babe."

The accusation hit me right in the chest. It stung worse than a slap.

"Okay," I said.

I swallowed the rest of my questions. Fighting meant digging my hands into a wound I wasn't ready to open. Pushing him meant forcing a confession I didn't want to hear.

"I'll finish packing your bag," I muttered, turning my back on him.

***

The front door clicked shut at 3:30 AM.

Julian was gone.

I sat alone at the kitchen table. The glow of my laptop illuminated the dark room. My hands were freezing. My jaw ached from clenching it all night.

"Let's see," I whispered to the empty apartment.

I pulled up my own production schedule. My off-Broadway show was currently filming promotional spots just three blocks from his scheduled hotel.

I opened my email. I typed *hotel confirmation* into the search bar.

"Come on," I muttered, tapping the trackpad.

An old receipt popped up. Three months ago, Julian had booked a surprise anniversary trip. He canceled it when a sudden reshoot hit his schedule.

Or so he claimed.

I clicked the original booking link. The webpage loaded.

*Status: Active.*

The room had never been refunded. It was still sitting there, reserved under my name.

I stared at the glowing green letters. I checked my recent messages with him on my phone.

*Me: Miss you.*

*Him: Crazy busy today. Call you later.*

That was four days ago. The constant stream of morning texts had completely dried up.

The last shred of naive hope fractured inside my chest, replaced by a cold, sharp resolve.

"Fine," I said softly. "Let's just see."

I picked up my phone. I opened the clock app. I set an alarm for 6:00 AM.

Tomorrow morning, I was going to Room 1408.

"Just act normal," I told my reflection in the rearview mirror.

I adjusted the collar of the blue dress. Julian loved this dress. I had bought his favorite bourbon. I had signed a stupid, hopeful card.

"I trust you," I practiced out loud to the empty car. "I miss you."

"I brought you a gift," I tried next.

None of it sounded right. I hummed along to the radio at a red light. I hated myself for how light the melody made me feel. My body desperately wanted to believe everything was fine. If I just smiled, if I just handed him the bourbon, the terrible weight in my chest would vanish.

"We're fine," I whispered.

I almost turned the car around. Three separate times, my hand hovered over the turn signal. I forced myself to keep driving.

I pulled into the hotel driveway. The valet jogged over and opened my door.

"Back again, Ms. Cross?" he asked, flashing a bright grin.

I froze with one foot on the pavement. "What?"

"I recognized you from your license plate." He took my keys. "Hope you and Mr. Cross have a great stay."

"I'm not." My voice sounded hollow. "We're not married."

"Oh." His smile dropped. "My mistake, sorry."

He walked away to park the sedan. An ugly pit opened in my stomach. *Back again.* How many times had Julian brought someone here?

I crossed the lobby to the front desk.

"Checking in," I told the clerk. "Under Julian Cross."

"Confirmation number?" he asked.

I read the digits from the old email on my phone.

He typed for a few seconds. He didn't look up. "Fourteen-oh-eight. Elevators are just past the lounge."

He slid a plastic keycard across the marble counter.

I stared at the black ink on the paper sleeve. *1408.*

"Is there a problem, ma'am?" the clerk asked.

"No." I took the card.

My hand closed around the plastic. The edges dug into my palm. I should have turned around right there. Some small, clear-eyed part of me knew it. My feet carried me toward the elevator bank anyway. The gift bag handle bit into my fingers. My pulse roared in my own ears.

The elevator chimed on the fourteenth floor.

I stepped out. The hallway was completely empty. The plush carpet swallowed the sound of my footsteps.

"Just a coincidence," I muttered.

I walked past 1402. Then 1404. My breathing turned shallow and quick without my permission. My chest tightened with every step.

I stopped in front of 1408.

I slid the card into the slot. The lock flashed green.

I pushed the heavy door open.

"Julian, I—"

The words died in my throat. I stood there, unmoving, taking it in.

A sweating ice bucket sat on the desk. Two glasses flanked an open bottle of champagne. The heavy duvet lay entirely on the floor.

Scarlett Vance sat on the edge of the mattress. She wore Julian's white dress shirt. One bare leg crossed over the other. She looked utterly unbothered, as if a stranger had walked into the wrong room by mistake.

Julian stood by the window in his undershirt, the city lights behind him. He was holding one of the champagne glasses.

When he saw me, the glass tilted. A thin spill of liquid ran over his knuckles and dripped onto the carpet.

The paper gift bag slipped from my fingers.

The bottle of bourbon hit the carpet with a muffled thud. The sound echoed in the dead silence.

My spine locked straight. My fingernails dug into my palms. My eyes burned, hot and fast,but I refused to let a single tear fall in front of either of them.

Scarlett tilted her head. One perfectly groomed eyebrow arched in genuine confusion.

"I'm sorry," she drawled. "Is this room service?"

The casual cruelty hit me low in the stomach. She didn't even recognize the woman whose boyfriend she was sleeping with.

"I'm his girlfriend." I held her gaze.

Julian slammed his glass onto the desk. The crystal cracked loudly against the wood.

"Wren." He took a step forward. "This isn't—"

"Don't," I snapped.

My voice came out steady. It shook at the edges, but I held the center firm.

"Let me explain." He reached a hand out.

"Explain what?" I asked. "The champagne? Or the shirt?"

"You weren't supposed to be here," Julian muttered.

"Clearly." I gestured to the messy bed. "Did Sarah set this up for you too?"

His jaw tightened. "Stop it."

"You lied to my face," I said. "You looked at me in our kitchen and told me I was being weird."

He stopped trying to lie. In the space of a single breath, his face shifted. The panic vanished. A nasty, defensive sneer replaced it. He looked relieved to finally have a reason to say it out loud.

"We agreed to wait, remember?" Julian shouted.

"Excuse me?"

"Your rule, not mine," he spat. "You think I was just supposed to sit there indefinitely while you decided you were ready?"

"You are blaming me for this?"

"I am stating a fact!" He pointed an accusing finger at me. "You refuse to give me the bare minimum, and you want to stand there and judge me for finding it somewhere else?"

The words hit exactly where they were aimed. My throat closed around a jagged lump of pure grief. My chin started to tremble.

I clamped my teeth together. I forced myself to hold still through sheer will.

"You have been lying for weeks," I fired back.

"I protected you!"

"That is not about sex, Julian. That is about you looking me in the eye and swearing to me nothing was happening."

Scarlett exhaled a bored stream of air, lazily swirling the champagne in her flute.

"Oh, spare us the melodrama," she drawled, not even bothering to adjust Julian's shirt over her exposed shoulder. "It's a wrap-party hookup, sweetie. Call a therapist and bill it to production."

I looked at her. Really looked at her.

I cataloged the immaculate porcelain skin, the bored sneer, the complete absence of shame. And just like that, the volcanic heat behind my ribs turned to dry ice. The hurt didn't kill me—it calcified.

I didn't yell. Screaming was for women who still had something left to lose.

Instead, I unclasped my handbag and pulled out my phone.

*Click.* The rumpled bed and two stars.

*Click.* The two champagne glasses—one marked with a distinct smudge of lipstick.

*Click.* Scarlett’s dress and Julian’s jacket tangled together on the armchair, her earrings discarded next to his watch.

"Wren, look at me. You're having an episode. Let me take you home." Julian tried to stop me. But I dodged him.

"Wren." He lunged forward, his voice dropping into a desperate plead now. "Come on. Don't do anything stupid."

I lowered the phone and slid it back into my bag.

"You just gave me everything I need," I said.

My voice was quiet, even, and colder than I had ever heard it come out of my own mouth.

I turned my back on them. I walked out of the room. My spine remained perfectly straight, my shoes steady on the carpet.

I didn't let myself shake until the elevator doors slid shut between me and that room.

The metal walls boxed me in. A violent tremor seized my hands. I looked up at my own reflection in the brushed steel panel. Pale skin. Dry eyes. A jaw locked so tight my teeth ached. I didn't recognize the woman staring back at me.

The elevator chimed at the ground floor.

The doors opened. By the time I reached the lobby, the shaking in my hands stopped completely.

I strode past the front desk. I handed my ticket to the valet.

I climbed into my car and shut the door.

Before starting the engine, I pulled my phone out one last time. I opened a blank note app. I needed to leave a message for myself, a promise to hold myself accountable later.

My thumbs flew across the digital keyboard.

*I am going to make sure everyone knows exactly who you are.*

I hit save. I tossed the device onto the passenger seat. I put the car in drive and pulled out of the hotel lot without a single backward glance.