Page 84 of Burn the Script

Wrapping my arms around his waist from behind, I pressed my cheek to his shoulder. “It’s the middle of the night. Why are you awake?”

His fingers slid into my sleeve and circled my wrist, holding tight. “I fucked up, Miguel.”

“How?”

When he turned, still holding my wrist, regret loomed heavily in his tired eyes. “The announcement comes out tomorrow.”

The unknown force that startled me awake began taking shape in my head, ominous and unwelcome. My heart rate spiked. “What announcement?”

He grasped my hands, twining our fingers together, but mine remained loose as he kissed each knuckle. “The breakup. I told you Tate and I were calling off the engagement.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t say when. You never said it was a done deal. And you damn sure never mentioned an announcement coming out tomorrow.” I took a step back. “How could you plan this without talking to me first?”

“With the media getting antsy for wedding details, our teams got involved⁠—”

“Excuses,” I spit, snatching my hands from him. “The same excuses every time. It’s always the ‘teams.’” My exaggerated finger quotes made him flinch. “What about me, Graham? Am I not a valuable member of your team? Shouldn’t I get a say in the decisions that affect our future?”

He shook his head, a silent plea as he reached for me. “Can we take a breath and talk about this?”

“Of course you want to talk about it after keeping me in the dark.”

I stomped to the bathroom, needing space to figure out my next move. He followed. Once we were in the closet, and he blocked the doorway, I felt cornered. Trapped. Out of time. All my nerve endings sizzled, and a single drop of accelerant was all it would take for me to combust.

“I’m finally bringing us into the light. Jonathan and I have it all planned out.”

My arms flailed wildly. “Oh my god, stop! Do you even hear yourself? The plans! The plans! Always with the fucking plans that revolve around what you want and your career. Not everything is about you!”

Nodding vigorously, he snagged the dirty cotton shorts draped over the side of the hamper. “You’re right. Every decision I make is for us, with you at the forefront of my mind.”

I pulled a leather duffel bag off the shelf, giving him my back. “If that were the case, we wouldn’t be having this conversation again. You’d care more about respecting me and our relationship than your arrangement with Tate.”

“We needed her protection. All the sacrifices I’ve made for my career would be for nothing if I couldn’t make movies in the end. Then what good am I? If I can’t live my dream, what then?”

Opening the drawers, I shoved underwear and socks in the bag. “Even if you were an actor fighting for a spot at the bottom of the list, you’d have me. Am I not enough?”

“If that were the case, you wouldn’t even be here.”

Everything screeched to a stop, the only sound my harsh, panting breaths. Slowly, I spun around, clutching the front of my pajama shirt in a fist. The gaping bag in my other hand mirrored Graham’s horrified expression. His mouth opened and closed, searching for words. I turned away and grabbed a folded stack of undershirts.

“Miguel, my darling, that came out wrong. I only meant we never would’ve met if⁠—”

My stiff hand in the air cut off his explanation. I didn’t need one. We met because Graham was famous. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been at the beach that morning, waiting on the nominee announcements for Hollywood’s most prestigious award.

He’d been running at full speed toward his goals long before I entered the picture. Our relationship could destroy Graham’s career. Acting, directing, all of it could end because he loved me. Add guilt to the list of reasons for my anxiety, and it was enough to push me beyond the brink of what I could even dream of handling.

For years, I’d beaten my insecurities into submission. Ever since we got through the early rough patches and carved out a comfortable, secure foxhole to hide our relationship in, I’d lived in a constant state of fear. It may have been quiet for months on end, shoved into the background, but it was there all long, waiting for the bomb to drop and shatter our perfect bubble. Even if Graham survived the blast and bounced back, I wasn’t sure I’d be so lucky.

As I looked at the love of my life, and gazed into his remorseful eyes, a confession spilled from my lips, unbidden but honest. “I can’t do this anymore, Graham. I’m tired.”

My voice sounded disembodied. My movements, even more so as I jammed random accessories into the duffel. I felt wholly untethered. Was I really doing this? Could I walk away from the man I loved, knowing I’d cause him pain? I had to, at least temporarily, until I figured out how to ease my own mental suffering.

Only when I zipped the bag did he realize the gravity of the situation. “What are you doing?” he asked, stepping closer, eyes flicking from me to the bag.

“Leaving.”

“What? No.” Panic seized his voice. “Let’s see how tomorrow goes, then we’ll figure out what happens next, together.”

I scoffed. “There is no tomorrow for us. Shame on me for taking so long to see the writing on the wall.”