Page 125 of Keep Me Close

“The ones about Dakota being arrested. They’re everywhere. You really should have let us know so we could release a statement.”

I close my eyes for a second as my brain somersaults. She doesn’t bother asking how I’m doing or if I’m all right. Her only concern is how we’ll spin the story.

“He showed up at a restaurant and cornered me in the bathroom before grabbing me, Mom. I’m pretty sure he’d been drinking.”

“I’m not saying he didn’t overstep,” she replies smoothly. “But couldn’t it have been handled better? You should have called the team for damage control. That’s what we pay them for.”

My fingers tighten around the phone, the old instinct to brace and swallow it down rising so fast it almost catches me off guard. For just a second, I feel sixteen all over again instead of twenty-six. My mother has a knack for making me feel small.

“I filed a restraining order.”

There’s a pause. “Well, the media will have a field day with that. Perhaps we can roll it into the promo for the new season.”

My stomach twists.

“I assume now that the Dakota issue is taken care of, you’ll be returning home.”

My gaze shifts to Knox. He doesn’t interrupt or hover. He simply watches me with a steady expression that somehow makes it easier for me to breathe.

“Filming starts soon,” Mom continues. “There’s so much for us to do. I’m thinking you get a makeover for the new season. Maybe extensions.”

My chest constricts as she continues talking. For one split second, I feel that old familiar pressure to fold, to smooth it over, to go along so everyone else is happy.

And then it dissolves as I straighten my spine. “Mom.”

“You’ll come home and we can reset. You’ll see, everything will go back to normal.”

Normal.

Normal means pretending to be a version of myself I’ve outgrown, and smiling when I don’t want to. Normal means letting other people dictate my life while I quietly stand on the sidelines.

I glance at Knox again. He gives a slight nod, as if silently encouraging me to tell her the truth.

My gaze stays locked on him. “I’m not coming home.”

The silence from the other end of the line is deafening.

“I’m sorry? What?”

“I’m not coming home,” I repeat, stronger this time.

“Cheyenne,” she says carefully, as if talking to a child who’s about to ruin their life, “you’re upset, and that’s understandable, but this isn’t the time to make emotional decisions.”

The old version of me would have panicked and backtracked. She would have tried to explain herself until my mother approved.

I don’t do that.

“I’m not being emotional.”

“Of course you are. You had a scare with Dakota, and you’re in a different city, surrounded by people you don’t normally spend time with⁠—”

“I auditioned for Broadway.”

There’s a pause.

“You did what?”

I lift my chin, even though she can’t see me do it, as pride swells in my chest. “I auditioned for a part and I got it.”