Chapter 2

"Iris, wait."

I don't stop walking. I can't. If I stop, if I turn around and look at him, I might fall apart right here in front of everyone.

My heels click against the pavement as I rush toward the parking structure. The award feels slippery in my sweaty hands.

"Iris, please."

His voice is closer now. Too close.

I spot Elena's red Honda and practically run toward it. She's already there, keys in hand, looking worried.

"Get in," she says, unlocking the doors. "Now."

I slide into the passenger seat just as Damien appears at the edge of the parking structure. He stops when he sees Elena's car, like he knows better than to approach when she's around.

Elena guns the engine and we pull out onto Sunset Boulevard.

"Those bastards," she mutters, gripping the steering wheel. "Your private life is none of their damn business. And who the hell leaked that video? Security footage from six years ago doesn't just magically appear on Twitter."

I stare out the window at the city lights blurring past. My hands are still shaking.

"I mean, seriously," Elena continues. "So what if you were pregnant once? Women get pregnant. It happens. It's not a scandal."

But it is a scandal. Because the father was Damien Cross—A-list actor, heir to the Cross Entertainment empire, Hollywood royalty. The kind of man whose every relationship gets dissected by tabloids. And everyone knows our history. Everyone knows how we ended.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Elena asks, her voice softer now.

I shake my head. I can't. Not yet.

The rest of the drive passes in silence. Elena pulls up in front of my apartment building in Silver Lake, a modest two-story complex that's nothing like the mansions in the Hills where Damien probably still lives.

"You sure you'll be okay?" she asks.

"Yeah. I just need some time to think."

"Call me if you need anything. And don't look at social media tonight. Promise me."

I promise, even though we both know I'm lying.

My apartment feels too quiet after the chaos of the evening. I set the award on my coffee table and stare at it. Three hours ago, this trophy represented everything I'd ever wanted. Now it just reminds me of how quickly everything can fall apart.

I pour myself a glass of wine and sink onto my couch.

Six years ago, I was sitting in a different room, staring at a different piece of evidence that would change my life forever.

The ultrasound photo.

I remember holding it with trembling hands, looking at the tiny, blurry shape on the screen. The technician had smiled and said, "About eight weeks along. Congratulations."

Congratulations.

I'd sat in my car in the clinic parking lot for an hour after that appointment, just staring at the picture. Our baby. Mine and Damien's.

I'd wanted to call him. I'd picked up my phone maybe twenty times, started to dial his number, then stopped.

Because every time I thought about telling him, I remembered that night in Malibu. The night everything changed.

The fire. The smoke. The choice he made.

The way he'd carried Seraphina out of that house while I lay unconscious on the floor, breathing in smoke that could have killed me.

The way he'd spent the next three days at her bedside while I recovered alone in a different hospital.

So I never made that call.

Instead, I made a different choice. A choice I've never regretted, even when it hurt so much I thought I might die from it.

My phone starts buzzing. Entertainment Weekly. People Magazine. Some blogger I've never heard of.

I turn it off.

But the silence is worse than the noise. It gives me too much space to think, to remember.

I'm halfway through my second glass of wine when the doorbell rings.

My heart stops.

It's almost midnight. Nobody comes to my apartment at midnight except...

I pad barefoot to the door and look through the peephole.

Damien.

He's still wearing his tuxedo, but his bow tie is undone and hanging loose around his neck. His hair is messy, like he's been running his hands through it. He looks tired. Worried.

He looks like the boy I fell in love with seven years ago, before everything got complicated.

He rings the bell again, then knocks softly.

"Iris, I know you're in there," he says, his voice muffled by the door. "I can see your lights on."

I press my back against the door, my hand hovering over the deadbolt.

"We need to talk."

Do we? Do we really?

I close my eyes and try to remember all the reasons I should keep this door locked. All the reasons I should pretend I'm not home.

But then he says the words I've been dreading for six years.

"About that child..."

My hand moves to the door handle before I can stop it.