Cal stopped just inside the frame, one hand still on the knob like he might bolt back out. No leather jacket today. Just a plain black tee, jeans, hair still damp from a shower. He lookedsmaller without the stage lights and the attitude. Hungover eyes, shadows underneath, mouth set in a line that wasn’t quite a frown.
He saw me first. Then Eli. Froze.
For a second neither of us moved. The train video kept playing. silent whoosh of steel on tracks.
Cal’s gaze flicked to Eli’s headphones, then back to me. He jerked his chin toward the living room. Quiet. Question.
I glanced at Eli. He hadn’t noticed. Still lost in bullet trains.
I slid off the bed, bare feet silent on the carpet, and followed Cal out. He closed the bedroom door most of the way, left it open an inch so I could hear if Eli needed me.
The living room was dim, curtains half-drawn against the afternoon glare. Empty takeout containers from room service sat on the coffee table. Bottled water. A half-eaten apple. Normal mess. Nothing felt normal.
Cal stood by the windows, arms crossed, staring at the Strip below like it might give him answers. When I stopped a few feet away, he turned, rubbed the back of his neck.
“Hey,” he said. Voice low. Rough from whatever he’d been drinking at lunch.
I didn’t answer. Just waited.
He exhaled hard through his nose. “Look. About this morning...”
“Don’t.”
He blinked. “I need to say it.”
“You don’t need to do anything. You already did plenty.”
His jaw ticked. “I was an asshole. I know that. I panicked. Ron was screaming, my phone wouldn’t stop ringing, Sydney was crying like the world ended, and I just… I wanted it all to stop. So I said shit I shouldn’t have. Called you things I didn’t mean.”
“You meant them enough to say them in front of everyone.”
“I didn’t...”
“You stood there and let her call me a gold-digger. A manipulator. Trash. You pulled her into your arms like she was the victim. Your friends watched. Not one of them said a word. Not even Kei, who at least pretended to be decent later.”
He looked away. “They’re… protective of her. Always have been.”
“And I’m what? Disposable?”
“That’s not....”
“It is.” My voice stayed steady. Cold. I wasn’t yelling. I didn’t have the energy. “You threw me under the bus so you wouldn’t have to deal with the mess. And now I’m here. In your hotel. Because my thirteen-year-old brother had a panic attack from strangers banging on our windows. Because my face is all over the internet. Because I trusted one night of stupid fun and woke up married to a stranger who thinks I’m after his money.”
He rubbed his face with both hands. “I don’t think that anymore.”
“Great. Progress.”
“I’m trying to apologize.”
“Apologies don’t fix terrified kids. They don’t fix missed work shifts. They don’t fix the fact that my landlord’s probably going to see the news and kick us out for ‘bad publicity.’”
He started pacing. Three steps. Turn. Three steps back. “The PR team wants us to… play along. For two weeks.”
I laughed. Short. Bitter. “Play along.”
“Yeah. A statement. Some photos. Look happy. Normal. Let the story burn out on its own. Then we file for annulment. Quiet. Clean.”
“You want me to pretend to be your wife.”
