Chapter 50: FIFTY
RYDER
The “urgent” Monday meeting pops up on my calendar, and the pit in my stomach tells me exactly how it’s going to go. I slide into my chair, log onto the call, and wait for the hammer to drop.
Sure enough, Ashton Hartley’s voice booms through the speakers like he’s running the show. Loud.
Overconfident. Breathing like he’s chewing on the mic. Somehow, he’s decided he’s the spokesman, and now he’s charging in full force.
“We’re pulling our money,” he announces. “This mess isn’t good for returns.”
“You signed contracts,” I bite back. “Walking away now isn’t just a bad call—it comes with penalties. You knew that, Hartley.”
“Your name’s about to be box office poison,” he says. “Who’s going to buy a ticket when you’re Hollywood’s public enemy number one?”
“I’m already working with PR,” I tell him sharply. “Let me remind you—I’m the one who was wronged. Someone trespassed, took those photos. What happens in my own home is no one’s business but mine.”
“Maybe so,” he says, and I can hear the smug in his tone, “but the assault video’s still out there. Over three million views. No brand wants to stand next to that.”
My patience was already frayed. This is just cutting it thinner.
“Charges were dropped,” I say through my teeth. “Halloway swung first. I defended myself.”
A few heads nod, but Hartley’s the kind who drowns out reason with volume. All it takes is one loudmouth to tip a decision.
“This film has an incredible script,” I argue. “The cast is top-tier. If we follow my marketing plan, it’ll fill theaters. Give it a couple of weeks—people will move on.”
“That’s not reality, Vane,” Hartley fires back. “I can smell a loss from a mile away. Send my lawyers the exit forms. I’ll take the financial hit over losing it all.”
Two others mumble their agreement.
“You’re making a mistake,” I warn him. “You’ll regret this.”
“It’s not personal. It’s business.”
His screen blinks out. One by one, the others vanish until it’s just me, staring at my own tired reflection.
I look wrecked. Dark smudges under my eyes. Skin pale and uneven. A fresh streak of gray in my hair that wasn’t there last month.
I shut the laptop and slump into my chair, eyes drifting to Eve’s empty desk in the corner. The only sound is the low hum of the air vents and the faint murmur of voices somewhere down the hall.
Filming wrapped last week. The footage is safe in the cloud. Normally, I’d be buzzing to dive into post—sorting through takes, piecing the story together, finessing the color, layering in sound.
That’s my favorite part: locking myself away with my editors, building the movie frame by frame.
But right now, I can’t bring myself to open a single file.
My mind just isn’t in the game. No matter where I am, it’s like I’m wading through a heavy, unshifting fog that refuses to lift long enough for me to breathe.
And then there’s Eve—everywhere and nowhere all at once.
Her desk still hides little traces of her: MCAT study guides stacked in the corner, a couple of stray hair ties, pens in shades only she would buy.
I run into her absence in places she’s never even been.
I miss the faint trace of her perfume drifting in the air. I miss hearing her voice as she handled my calls. I miss the rapid-fire tapping of keys when she was answering my emails like it was a competitive sport.
I hate glancing to my right, half-expecting her there, only to meet empty space. I hate how much I ache for her laugh, her warmth, the way her smile could knock the edge off my worst days.
I’ve dated enough to know how breakups go—sometimes I’ve been the one to end it, sometimes I’ve been the reason for the tears. But this… this is the first time I’ve been left standing in the wreckage with my own heart cracked in two.
No one tells you how gutted it feels. How hollow. How not seeing someone every day, not even knowing where they are, can chew away at you like this.
It’s a particular brand of hurt.
And I’m not a fan.
A knock hits my door, and I groan before even answering—because I already know who’s on the other side.