Page 68 of The Sound Between Us
Fuck.
She slides into the seat next to me—not across, next to—the move so calculated it should come with a choreographer’s credit. Plants a kiss on my cheek that lingers just long enough for the camera.
“Darling.” Like we’re still together; like she didn’t try to sell stories about my alleged drug habits to The Sun six months ago.
“Ruby.” My voice could freeze champagne.
Marcus flees, leaving me trapped with Ruby and her audience.
“Henry called about the awards ceremony.” She signals the waiter. “How lovely that he thought to include me. I was thinking Valentino—pale pink, very demure.”
I lean back, studying her. The performative concern, the calculated vulnerability, the way she’s angled herself so the photographer gets her best side.
“I think you could wear banana yellow and I still wouldn’t give a shit.”
Her smile falters. “You’re being mean.”
“I’m being honest. There’s a difference.”
The photographer shifts closer. Ruby’s performance ratchets up another notch.
“We were so good together.” She reaches for my hand.
I pull it away. “We were a publicity stunt with better cocaine.”
“Harrison—”
“No.” I stand abruptly. “Whatever this is, whatever game you and Henry are playing, I’m not interested.”
But I can’t storm off. Not with the cameras watching; not with tomorrow’s headlines already writing themselves.
So I stay. I smile; I play the part while she performs the role of the hopeful reunion candidate, our little drama playing out for an audience.
Twenty minutes of pure fucking torture.
When we finally stand to leave, there’s a small crowd gathering near the exit. Fans with phones, the usual LA vultures drawn to the scent of celebrity.
I sign autographs, take selfies, smile until my face aches. Ruby stays close, posing like we’re still a unit.
But in the chaos, I manage to slip away. Down the stairs, through the lobby, out into the blazing afternoon sun while she’s still explaining her skincare routine to a teenage girl with a TikTok account.
The heat hits me, but it feels like freedom.
I’m already pulling out my phone, dialling Henry.
“The tickets,” I say when he picks up. “Did you get them?”
“Harrison? Where are you—”
“The fucking tickets, Henry. Did you get them?”
