Page 67 of The Clifftop Cottage

She walked down the hallway and sank onto the bed, pulling the covers over her head.

Maybe if she stayed there long enough, it would all go away.

Her body stilled, then a small weight landed on the bed beside her.

Lucky, persistent as ever.

23

The air in the car was thick. It smelled like new leather, citrus from Steven’s cologne, and something sterile. Like disinfectant. Like the waiting rooms.

Erica gripped the passenger door handle so tightly her knuckles turned white. “Steven,” she tried, keeping her voice steady, “please. Just take me home. I’ll rest. I’ll take a break. I just – I just need to breathe.”

She turned to him, searching for something in his face. Kindness? Understanding? Love?

His hands tightened around the steering wheel. “Erica, you’re not listening.”

Her thoughts snagged, slipping out of reach.

Too much pressure, too much everything.

She had felt this coming. The exhaustion creeping in like slow poison. But she had pushed forward. That’s what they did. What they always did.

But now she was here. Again.

Steven exhaled sharply, shaking his head. His jaw was tight, his perfect face shadowed under the dim lights in the hospital car park. “You think I want to do this? You think I like watching you self-destruct?”

“I’m not self-destructing.” Her voice came out thin, desperate. “I just … I lost my temper. I messed up. I need a day. Just one day, and I’ll⁠—”

Steven’s laugh was humourless. “A day? You humiliated yourself. And me. You screamed at a journalist on camera. What were you thinking?”

Erica pressed her palms into her forehead, squeezing her eyes shut. She hadn’t been thinking. Not clearly.

It had been an interview, one of the hundred they did, but something about that day had been different. She had barely slept – maybe three hours, maybe less. Her heart had been racing before she even stepped on set, her hands shaking no matter how much matcha she drank.

The interviewer had asked something off.

“So, Erica, you and Steven have built this incredible empire. But do you ever worry that your fans see you as … well, the intense one? The one who pushes too hard?”

She had blinked at him. A slow, stunned blink.

Steven had chuckled beside her, smoothing it over. “Oh, Erica’s just passionate.”

But the question had stuck. Wormed its way into her chest, pressing against all the cracks she had been desperately trying to ignore.

She had smiled. Had tried to be gracious. But then the interviewer kept going.

“I mean, we all saw the vlog from last month. You had Steven up at four a.m. for meditation and a cold plunge? That’s pretty extreme. Do you think, maybe, sometimes you push things too far? Some might say controlling?”

Things tilted.

She heard the ice in her own voice before she could stop it. “You think that’s funny?”

The interviewer blinked.

Steven had gone rigid beside her.

And then she had snapped.