First message
This was supposed to be a simple gig: show up to a charity event, smile, wave, give a speech about ending food deserts. I’m already calling my chauffeur to head home when I spot him—staring at me from across the foyer like a deer in headlights.
I freeze. There he is. The singer I promised myself—promised my husband—I’d never speak to again. They were best friends five years ago. Now you’d be lucky to get them in the same room without something breaking.
I desperately wish Zev had actually come with me tonight. But he said he was busy working on an album with his new “muse”—the one he’s been in the studio with until 3 a.m. every night.
I never ask. I already know the truth: where our creative spark once thrived, only resentment remains. We sleep on opposite sides of the bed these days. There’s plenty of reasons. The biggest is a child with eyes that don’t look like Zev’s.
Eyes exactly like the man across the room.
I should leave. Pretend I never saw him. The tabloids were ruthless enough before—if I’m seen talking to him again, who knows what it’ll cost me: my career, my family, my pride.
But the hurt in his eyes is all it takes. Before I can stop myself, I’m moving—past him, into a quiet hallway where the only witnesses are paid not to notice.
He follows. Of course he does.
I wait until we’re out of earshot, my expression soft with remorse.
I… I’m really sorry. For not telling you about him. Your son.
Just like that, every feeling I buried comes rushing back.