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The publicist’s eyes widen. Spencer looks personally offended.

“Communication problems?” I ask. “Spencer, I don’t work for you.”

His expression hardens, and around us people develop a sudden interest in checking their phones, rearranging paperwork, and being literally anywhere else. “I never said you worked for me.”

I fold my arms. “Sure. You just keep finding ways to make me responsible for things that aren’t remotely my job.”

His eyes narrow, and the conversation finally makes sense.

The photo call is only part of the issue. He isn’t just upset about a scheduling mistake. He’s upset because I pushed back instead of accepting the blame and moving on.

“You know what?” Spencer says. “Forget it.”

“Happy to.”

“No, seriously.” He lifts both hands in frustration. “This is why we can’t talk.”

I actually glance around the hallway. “Should I be looking for the other conversation? Because the one I’m in seems pretty straightforward.”

His expression darkens. “Because everything becomes drama with you.”

A laugh slips out. This one doesn’t feel funny at all. It feels like the last thread holding my patience together finally snapped.

A makeup artist rushes past carrying a garment bag. The publicist disappears into the crowd. Somewhere down the hall, somebody is calling for a camera operator.

Spencer continues talking as the studio carries on around us, people crossing the hallway with clipboards and equipment as though our relationship isn’t quietly imploding in the middle of their workday.

I watch his mouth move and suddenly feel like I’ve seen this scene before. The circumstances are different this time, but the argument follows the same path it always does.

Sooner or later, the blame circles back to me.

I’ve spent years trying to prevent that outcome, carefully adjusting my reactions, choosing my words, swallowing frustrations before they could start a fight.

I kept believing that if I handled things better, we’d stop ending up here. Instead, we’ve been having the same argument in different disguises.

Spencer is still talking, but I’m barely listening now.

He’s explaining why I’m the problem, but I’ve heard this speech often enough that I already know how it ends.

A strange feeling settles over me, as though I’ve spent years carrying a suitcase because somebody convinced me it belonged to me, only to realize my name was never on it.

“I’m trying to have a conversation with you,” Spencer says.

I look at him properly then.

At the irritation he isn’t bothering to hide. At the expectation that I’ll smooth this over the way I always do. At the confidence that this argument will end exactly as every other argument has ended.

And suddenly, I don’t have it in me anymore.

I don’t want to apologize. I don’t want to explain myself. I don’t want to spend another hour pretending this dynamic is normal as Spencer reshapes every frustration until somehow I’m responsible for that too.

I’m tired of carrying that burden for both of us.

“I’m dramatic?”

Spencer drags a hand across his face. “Emma, can we⁠—”

“No. You’ve had years of speaking. I’m taking a turn.” I watch surprise flicker across his face. “You disappear during events.”