Chapter 4: The Confession Unravels
The silence in Dee’s apartment was a thick, itchy thing. A week’s worth of unread newspapers formed a leaning tower on the rug, and the single floor lamp cast a guilty, warm pool over her laptop. The article draft glared back at her—500 words on the “stunning” and “unexpected” breakup of two people she’d never met, whose entire relationship had been a PR strategy cooked up in a boardroom. Her editor’s feedback was scrawled in the margin: More pathos. Readers need to FEEL his heartbreak.
She snorted, pushing the machine away. It clicked shut with a sound of finality.
Outside, the city hummed its endless song. She grabbed her phone, the impulse sharp and desperate. The comfortable, philosophical rhythm of their chats felt a continent away. She didn’t want poetry about sparrows. She wanted to scream.
Her thumbs flew, the tap-tap-tap hitting the screen like thrown pebbles.
Dee: Know what? I really need to vent, so please don’t judge my lie about writing about important stuff, because I actually write about celebrities.
She sent it, not waiting for a reply. The dam was broken.
Dee: Who I wish were just normal mayor office workers instead of notorious handsy pricks.
The words sat there, black and ugly and true. She felt a immediate flush of shame, then defiance. Let him see this. The unvarnished, pissed-off reality.
Dee: But got any pointers on how to manage oneself with them and not lose a job since you are clearly in the business?
She threw her phone onto the couch. It landed screen-up, a silent, accusatory rectangle. She stood, pacing to the window, pulling the curtain back. No fairy lights tonight. Just a solid wall of dark glass reflecting her own tense silhouette back at her.
Across town, Matt was in his kitchen, pouring a glass of water when the phone vibrated on the marble countertop. He saw the cascade of messages, Dee’s name, and felt a jolt of adrenaline so pure it was almost nausea.
Himself. She was talking about himself. Or people exactly like him. The word “prick” seemed to pulse on the screen.
He set the glass down, water sloshing over the rim. His heart was a frantic drum against his ribs. For months, this space had been a sanctuary, a place where he was just Matt—a man with thoughts about sparrows and scars and the quiet passage of time. Now the outside world, the world of premieres and personas and the exact kind of men she was describing, had burst in like a SWAT team.
He picked up the phone, his palms slick. He had to answer. Anything else would be a red flag. But every piece of advice he could give was poisoned at the source. It was all learned from the inside, a script for dealing with… himself.
He typed, deleted, typed again.
Matt: Okay. Vent heard. No judgment. Ever.
He took a deep breath, the actor in him slipping on the mask of a wise, removed confidant. The lie of omission curdled in his gut.
Matt: Pointers. Document everything. Times, dates, witnesses, even if it’s just a PA getting coffee. Boring, but it creates a paper trail. Always have an exit strategy—a colleague you can text with a code word, a meeting you ‘must’ get to. Never be alone in a closed space if you can avoid it. Say no with a smile, but say it like a brick wall. ‘That won’t be possible’ is a full sentence.
He sent it. It was good advice. Practical. The kind of thing his own team had quietly implemented for years to shield him and others. It felt gross to offer it, like he was handing her a map to navigate a minefield he was personally standing in.
Dee: That’s… weirdly specific.
His breath hitched.
Dee: And smart. The brick wall thing. ‘That won’t be possible.’ I like that.
Matt: It’s standard HR stuff, honestly.
Another lie. It was survival stuff, whispered in trailers and at after-parties, not in employee handbooks.
Dee: It just sounds so rehearsed. Like you’ve given this speech before.
Matt closed his eyes. She was too good. She listened, really listened, to the shape of words. He could see her, sharp brown eyes narrowing at the screen, that journalistic instinct bypassing the what and zeroing in on the how.
Matt: Maybe I have. To myself.
That, at least, was true. He’d repeated those phrases like mantras in plenty of rooms where the power dynamic swam with alcohol and ego.
Dee: Today’s ‘handsy prick’ is an A-lister who thinks an interview includes a neck massage. I used your line. Verbatim. The smile felt like a grimace. But he stopped.
A wave of protectiveness so fierce it shocked him washed through Matt. He saw it instantly—the flashy hotel suite, the overfamiliar grin, the casual invasion. Rage, hot and personal, coiled in his stomach. He wanted a name. He wanted to ruin someone.
But he was no one here. He was just text on a screen.
Matt: Good. I’m glad he stopped.
The words were pathetic, a feather against a brick.
Dee: Me too. Sorry for the dump. I just… needed someone who might get it to hear it.
Matt: Anytime. Seriously.
The silence that followed was different. The warmth was still there, the connection, but it was threaded now with a fine, high-tension wire. She had shared a brutal piece of her reality. He had responded with a perfect, polished shield.
He looked at his own hand, the scar on his palm a pale seam in the kitchen light. He thought of her hand in the photo, the realness of it. He was making her reality a lie.
Down the hall, in his sleek, minimalist home office, his public face was everywhere—on magazine covers framed on the wall, on a poster for a film that had premiered last year. A face she would undoubtedly recognize. A face that belonged, by her definition, to the category of ‘celebrity.’ The word ‘prick’ echoed.
He walked to the balcony door, leaning his forehead against the cool glass. The city was a jeweled sprawl. Somewhere in it, Dee was probably curled on her couch, maybe regretting her confession, maybe studying his replies with that incisive mind.
He had to tell her. The thought was a cold stone in his throat. But the fear of watching that digital intimacy shatter, of seeing her words turn careful and distant, of becoming just another famous person she had to manage—it was paralyzing.
The momentum was now a slow, rolling avalanche. He was at the top, watching it begin its slide.