*Camille*

Lena was already trying to unlock my front door with her spare key when I opened it. She held two coffees and her laptop—a soldier reporting for a war I wasn't ready to fight. I wish she’d brought wine.

“Damage control,” she said, sweeping past me. “Let’s get ahead of this.”

I collapsed onto my bed. “I can’t breathe.”

She pulled up a profile—Emma R. Blue check. Perfect hair. A curated feed of heartbreak and lip gloss. One of those girls whose pain looked photogenic.

“Emma’s his ex,” Lena said grimly. “And this bitch just flipped your date from meet-cute to PR nightmare.”

I stared at my hands. They were shaking.

“He didn’t even warn me,” I whispered.

“Maybe he didn’t expect this either. Or maybe…” Her voice softened, careful. “Did he text you?”

I just looked at her. The silence between us stretched into a wire pulled too tight.

I hadn’t checked my phone.

Not because I didn’t want to. But because the only thing worse than watching the chaos unfold online… was finding out he hadn’t reached out at all.

The comments, the edits, the devil horns—I could take those. Even the think-pieces about my “tragic aesthetic.”

But silence? Silence was the sharpest edge of all. It meant I was disposable.

I stared at my phone, still face-down on the table. 'Do Not Disturb' mode on. It sat there like a jagged piece of shrapnel, a live explosive ready to detonate the moment I touched it.

*Daniele*

I played The Blower’s Daughter until my fingers ached. The cello in the track sounded like a low, mourning groan.

Called her once. Maybe twice.

Let it ring too long before I dropped it to voicemail.

Told myself I wasn’t going to be that guy—the one who chases.

Still felt the guilt anyway. This wasn’t fair. She didn’t deserve this. Hell, no one did.

Jax strolled into the studio, tossed me a water bottle. “You look like shit.”

“Feel like shit,” I said. “Did you see the new favorite meme topic? Comments roasting her—‘Fashion Victim.A 'downgrade.'”

Jax leaned back, unimpressed. “Vince is probably counting the likes.”

My jaw tightened. “She’s a person. She didn’t sign up for a PR circus.”

“Which is why you should be careful,” Jax warned, stepping closer. “she could sue you or something.”

I looked at my phone. I was worried about her—the way her hands had been so steady before this, the way she’d looked at me—but I wasn't an idiot. I knew how fast someone could turn into a witness when she felt burned.

“I’m trying to get ahead of it.” I turned my screen so he could see the unsent text.

I know it’s fucked up. Meet me at Café Leroux. I’ll explain everything.
(Even the parts that’ll make you hate me.)

Address attached.

Jax whistled low. “That’s a hell of a gamble, D.”

“I’d rather tell her the truth than have her hear it from a lawyer,” I said, my thumb hovering over the screen. If she was ignoring me because she was hurt, I needed to fix it. If she was ignoring me because she was planning a lawsuit, I needed to know that, too.

I hit send. I told her to meet me at Café Leroux, a basement spot in the West Village. I just needed a place where the walls didn't have eyes.

Jax smirked. “Good luck. You’re gonna need it.”