Page 124 of PR Stunt

I don’t feel good, exactly. But I feel…better. A fraction lighter. Wrapping a towel around myself, I step onto the bathmat, pressing my palms against the counter for balance. I towel-dry my hair quickly, raking my brush through the knots before shrugging on my robe. I grab my phone and dial my mom, seeing all the missed calls and texts. She answers on the second ring.

“Charlie?” Her voice is soft but laced with panic. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “I just… I wanted to tell you before you saw it online.”

There’s a sharp inhale. “We already did. God, sweetheart… You scared us half to death.”

“I know.” I close my eyes, swallowing hard. “I’m okay. I promise.”

A pause. I can hear rustling on the other end, like she’s pacing, trying to calm herself.

“Are you home? Are you safe?”

“I’m home,” I say gently. “I’m safe. I swear.”

There’s a shaky breath and then her voice again, quieter this time. “I hate that we’re not there.”

“I know,” I whisper. “But I’m okay.”

Another pause. “Is Grayson with you?”

My throat tightens. “Yeah. He’s here.”

The relief in her voice is instant. “Good. I’m glad you’re not alone.”

“Me too.”

“We love you so much,” she says. “Please try to get some sleep, okay?”

I exhale, my shoulders loosening just a little. “I will. Love you, Mom.”

I hang up before I get too emotional and text Juno, reassuring her, too, that I’m okay. I set my phone back on the bathroom counter, and a second later, dishes clink faintly downstairs. The sound catches me off guard, and my thoughts are still slow enough that it takes a beat to remember Grayson is here. Why didn’t I insist he leave? Can’t believe I asked him to bring me home in the first place. It was a lapse in judgment, given the circumstances. And as of right now, we’re technically not even on contract anymore. I swallow hard. I can’t forget that text from Lydia even if I tried. The boundaries should be clear again. The lines back where they belong. And I’ll finally be able to put this job to rest. I tie my robe tighter, running a hand through my towel-dried hair as I make my way downstairs.

I hear him before I see him. Grayson’s hushed voice carries from the kitchen. I pause at the bottom step, my fingers brushing against the banister.

“We need the security company in here tomorrow,” he says. A beat of silence. Then, like an afterthought, “Also posted on the street.”

I swallow, my breath catching in my throat. The kitchen comes into view as I move forward. His back is to me, his phone balanced between his shoulder and his ear as he moves around the stove, his blazer discarded over one of the kitchen island chairs. I can hear the quiet sizzle of something cooking, the scrape of a spoon against a pot. “My priorities are here, Miranda,” he continues. His voice is clipped. “Not the premiere. I don’t care. Just give a statement.”

Another pause. He exhales, adjusting his grip on the phone.

“Yeah, she’s…taking a bath. Shaken up for sure.”

His free hand rests on the counter beside him, fingers flexing slightly, tension still running through his shoulders.

Then, softer: “Yeah, I will. Okay. Thank you. Bye.”

I exhale, shifting my weight, and that’s when he finally turns.

“I couldn’t find much to make in the fridge, but I did find cheese, butter…” He pauses. “You know. For…buttered noodles.”

He remembered. Sadness tugs low in my chest, sharp and unwelcome. I pull out a stool at the kitchen island and sink onto it, my robe pooling around me. Grayson doesn’t say anything as grabs a glass from the cabinet, fills it with water, and sets it in front of me. He turns back to the range.

“Why are you here?” I ask.

He stills.

I swallow, tightening my grip around the glass. “Our contract is over. We don’t need to act anymore.”