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He pulls me through the side hallway into the private back room, which has soundproof walls and a stocked minibar. The door clicks shut behind us, muting the madness.

I sit heavily on the worn leather couch, my heart still racing.

“Did they follow me?” I ask.

Harry peeks through the blinds. “Looks like it.”

“Seems I ruin everything I touch,” I sigh. “Your place has always been free of paparazzi.”

“Shut up!” Harry crosses his arms. “You can’t keep living like this.”

I close my eyes.

For once, I agree.

Harry pours himself a drink and drops into the armchair across from me; his legs stretched out like he owns the whole city.

“You know,” he says, taking a sip, “when I opened this place, I pictured it as a quiet escape. Cozy. Classy. You—” he gestures at me, “—you’ve just turned it into a TMZ drop zone.”

“I aim to please,” I mutter, eyes still on the ceiling.

He grins. “What are we calling this one? ‘Jack Calloway: Homewrecker Extraordinaire’?”

“Keep going. I might put it on my next movie poster.”

He snorts. “Might as well lean in. ‘Based on a scandal. Inspired by real bad decisions.’”

I chuckle despite everything. “You should be my publicist.”

“No thanks. I like having hair,” he answers, referring to Mike, my very skillful and very bald publicist.

We sit like that for a bit, the easy silence of old friends filling the space between our words. I needed this. Not advice, not more fire alarms. Just… normal.

Harry taps the edge of his glass. “So what now?”

I shrug. “Hide in your bar until the paparazzi forget me; then, I’ll head home for another round of sleep.”

Harry laughs, and the conversation switches to the restaurant and funny stories about some of the patrons. An hour later, I head home. The penthouse feels different when I walk in.

Quieter.

The kind of quiet that presses against your skin. No music. No perfume lingering in the air. Just silence. Thankfully, my bed is empty. I’m relieved. No awkward goodbye. No need to fake interest in her favorite TikTok account. No need to let her down easy while knowing I’ll never see her again.

I pour myself a glass of water and lean against the island.

That’s when my phone rings.

Dad flashes across the screen.

I hesitate before answering. My dad rarely calls unless it’s serious—well, I guess today is pretty serious.

I swipe to pick up. “Hey.”

“Son,” he says, and just that—son—carries more weight than I expected.

“Let me guess,” I say. “You saw the news.”

There’s a pause. “Hard not to. It’s all over the TV. You are trending on my golf app now, too.”