Page 24

The thought scratches something under my skin as I pull out of the parking lot. I flick the turn signal and ease onto the road, letting the night stretch out around me.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

Which is usually when the thoughts creep in.

I think about what she said—about being a man who doesn’t know anything about real connection. I hate how the words stick, how they echo.

Because they’re not wrong.

I’ve never had a real connection. Not with the girls I date. Not with the women who bat their lashes and giggle at my jokes. I’ve spent my entire adult life creating distractions. Red carpets, afterparties, rumors… all of it noise. Loud enough to drown out everything that actually hurts.

Like the sound of my dad and Harry going, “It’s because of her, isn’t it?”

Her.

The word stings more than I like to admit.

Because I know exactly who they’re talking about.

The one woman who was supposed to love me unconditionally. Who looked me in the eyes and said I was too much trouble for her. A liability to her perfect life. A crack in her Hollywood dream.

I don’t expect love from anyone.

Not after Megan Hart.

I don’t like to admit it, but she ruined me. She ruined my life.

Back at my place, I head straight to my home office. I don’t even change out of my clothes—I just sit at my desk and type her name into the search bar like a man scratching at a scab that won’t stop bleeding.

Megan Hart.

I’ve searched for this name many times, and the results have always been the same. The hurt is always the same.

The headlines are flattering.

Oscar-winning actress Megan Hart set to lead a groundbreaking secret project that promises to teach the new generation of Hollywood how it’s done.

Of course.

She always knows how to show up at just the right time with just the right headline. She is the queen of timing and reinvention. Megan Hart, beloved icon, is still dazzling after all these years. She is still perfect.

I scroll down, eyes scanning like I’m on autopilot.

There’s a photo of her. One of many. She’s all polished elegance—hair swept into a perfect chignon, signature red lips curved in a poised smile. Her eyes twinkle under the lights, angled just so for the cameras. Always effortless. Always camera-ready.

She’s leaning toward a group of children at some high-end charity gala, crouching in a sparkling gown that probably costs more than the rickety car I drove in high school.

The caption?

“Megan Hart: A true lover of children.”

The irony slaps me in the face.

A laugh escapes me—short, sharp, humorless.

Lover of children, huh?

I click on the photo. Zoom in. Her smile widens. It’s pristine. Practiced. The kind of smile the world falls at the feet of.