Chapter 1: #cancelled

Carrie Lowe

The emerald silk of my dress felt like a second skin, but a skin that didn't belong to me. It was too tight, too expensive, and far too loud for a woman who spent fourteen hours a day in surgical scrubs and orthopedic clinics. I had saved for three months to buy it, skipping lunches and taking double shifts at the hospital just to look like I belonged in Mark’s world for one night.

It was our third anniversary. Three years of being the secret behind the man. Three years of massaging his hamstrings after every workout, researching his competitors, and making sure his protein shakes were exactly the right consistency. I was the "lucky charm" of Mark Sterling, the man everyone in Los Angeles predicted would be the next great sports scout for the major leagues.

But tonight, I wasn't just his lucky charm. I was his wife. And I was done being a secret.

The Diamond Club was a fortress of glass and steel rising out of the heart of L.A. It was the kind of place where the air-conditioning was set to a freezing temperature just to prove they could afford the electricity. Outside, the street was a chaos of idling luxury SUVs and the low hum of power. I clutched the gift bag in my hand. Inside was a tailored Italian suit that cost more than my car. It was a peace offering. A bridge. A way to say, I’m proud of you, now let the world see me.

"Name?" The bouncer at the VIP entrance didn't even look up from his tablet. He was built like a brick wall and smelled of expensive cologne and aggression.

"Carrie Lowe. I’m here for Mark Sterling’s table."

The man paused, his eyes flicking over my dress, then my face. He didn't see a billionaire’s wife. He saw a girl trying too hard. "Sterling is in the back. Lounge Four."

The club was a sensory assault. The bass from the speakers thudded in my chest like a physical blow. The air was a thick mix of expensive cigars, spilled champagne, and the raw scent of ambition. I pushed through the crowd, my heels clicking rhythmically on the marble floor. Every time a man looked my way, I felt a surge of pride. I looked good. I looked like I deserved to be here.

I found Lounge Four behind a heavy velvet curtain. I pulled it aside, a smile already forming on my lips, ready to say his name.

The words died in my throat.

Mark wasn't alone. He was sprawled on a white leather sofa, a bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket. Sitting on his lap was a woman I recognized instantly. Tiffany. She was a sports influencer with a million followers and a reputation for "dating" the very legends Mark was supposed to be scouting. Her hand was buried in Mark’s hair, and his face was pressed into the crook of her neck.

They weren't just talking. They were celebrating.

The gift bag slipped from my fingers. The suit hit the floor with a dull thud.

Mark looked up, his eyes glassy. He didn't jump. He didn't push her off. He just blinked at me with a slow, bored expression.

"Carrie," he said. His voice was steady, lacking even a hint of guilt. "You’re late."

"Mark?" My voice sounded thin, lost in the roar of the club. "Who is this?"

Tiffany giggled, a sharp, metallic sound that set my teeth on edge. She leaned back, smoothing her tiny dress over her hips. "So this is the 'helper' you’re always talking about? The one who fixes your stiff neck after a long day of work?"

"Helper?" I turned my gaze to Mark. "Is that what I am to you? After three years? After I paid for your scouting license? After I stayed in that tiny apartment so you could put every cent into your branding?"

Mark stood up, finally. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a white envelope.”I was going to give this to you when I got home, but since you’re here. I might as well just hand it to you here ” He didn't hand it to me; he tossed it onto the table.

I opened the envelope and I felt a sharp pain in my chest like someone had dug a knife into it.  "Divorce papers, Carrie," he said. The coldness in his tone was worse than a slap. "Let’s be real. I’m moving into the big leagues now. I’m going to be the Lead Scout for the New York Titans. I need a woman who knows how to walk a red carpet, not a girl who smells like a medicine cabinet. You were a great crutch when my leg was broken, but I can walk on my own now."

The humiliation was a physical weight, pushing the air out of my lungs. People in the neighboring lounges were starting to stare. I could see the phones coming out, the screens glowing like predatory eyes.

"You're leaving me? Here? On our anniversary?"

"Don't make a scene, Carrie. It’s embarrassing," Mark said, turning back to Tiffany. "Go home. Or don't. I don't care. Just stay out of my way."

I wanted to scream. I wanted to tear the emerald dress off my body and use it to strangle him. But my pride wouldn't let me break. Not in front of Tiffany. Not in front of the cameras. I looked around the room, my eyes blurred with tears. I refused to let fall. I needed an exit. I needed to show him that he didn't own me.

And then, I saw him.

In the center of the VIP section, surrounded by a circle of empty space that no one dared to cross, was Jake Slater.

He was the Baseball Legend. A man whose face was on every billboard in the country. He was sitting with a glass of neat whiskey, his eyes fixed on the crowd with a look of pure, unadulterated boredom. He was a god among men, a billionaire whose influence could ruin a career with a single tweet.

I didn't think. I couldn't think. I just moved.

I walked past Mark’s booth. I didn't look at his shocked expression. I walked straight to Jake Slater’s table.

His security team moved to block me, but Jake raised a single hand. He didn't smile. He didn't even look interested. He just looked at me like I was a curious insect.

"Can I help you?" His voice was a deep, smooth rasp that made the hair on my arms stand up.

I didn't say a word. I reached out, my fingers trembling as I grabbed the lapels of his black suit jacket. I pulled him toward me. He was solid. He was huge. He smelled like cedarwood and the kind of power that didn't need to shout.

I stood on my toes and pressed my lips to his.

It wasn't a soft kiss. It was a declaration of war. I poured all my pain, all my rage, and all my broken heart into that kiss. I wanted to burn Mark’s world down. I wanted to taste something that wasn't betrayal.

For a second, the world exploded. Jake’s lips were firm, unyielding. He didn't move at first. He was like a statue carved from ice.

But tucked away in the shadows of the VIP lounge, I didn't see the movement. A paparazzo lurked in the corner and took a picture of us. 

He had been waiting for something news worthy to happen all night, and I had just handed him a winning lottery ticket. The shutter clicked rapidly, the desperate curve of my spine, and the shock on Jake's face. 

Our meeting of the lips was about to be interrupted. 

Jake’s hands grabbed my wrists. His grip was like iron. He didn't pull me closer. He shoved me back. I stumbled, my heels catching on the rug. I fell hard, my knees hitting the cold marble floor.

The room went dead silent.

Jake stood up. He was towering over me, his shadow stretching across the floor. He didn't look angry. He looked disgusted. He took a silk handkerchief from his pocket and slowly, deliberately, wiped his mouth.

"Security," he said. His voice wasn't loud, but it filled every corner of the lounge. "Get this clout-chaser out of here. She’s trash. I don't want to see her face here ever again"

The guards hauled me to my feet. My dress was torn at the shoulder. My hair was a mess. They dragged me through the club while Mark laughed from his booth, pointing at me like a circus act. They threw me out the front door, onto the wet sidewalk.

I sat there in the dark, my knees bleeding, not knowing that the photo of my desperation was already being uploaded to every tabloid server in the country.

The Morning After

The sun was barely up when I woke to the sound of my phone buzzing against the nightstand like a trapped insect. I ignored it at first, my head throbbing with the memory of the night before. But the buzzing didn't stop. It was a relentless, vibrating scream.

I reached for it, squinting against the light. My heart dropped into my stomach.

My notifications were in a war zone. I didn't even have to open an app to see it. The photo was everywhere. It was a high-resolution shot from the club—the angle made it look like I was practically throwing myself at Jake, my eyes closed in a pathetic plea for attention.

The captions were worse than the image.

“Who is the Desperado locking lips with Jake Slater?”

“Billionaire Baseball Legend Jake Slater assaulted by obsessed fan.”

“The thirst is real: A closer look at the woman who kissed Jake Slater .”

I scrolled through the comments, my hands shaking. Thousands of people I had never met were calling me a whore, a groupie, a social climber. Someone had already dug up my name. My medical degree. My place of employment.

“She’s a doctor? God, imagine being her patient. I’d be afraid she’d try to sleep with me for a referral.”

“She looks like trash. Jake was right to throw her out.”

I felt sick. I dragged myself out of bed, showered until my skin was raw, and put on my most professional scrubs. I pulled my hair back into a tight, severe bun. I needed to be a doctor today. I needed the hospital to be my sanctuary.

But the moment I stepped through the sliding glass doors of the medical center, the sanctuary was gone.

The lobby was quiet, but the silence felt heavy. As I walked toward the elevators, I felt the weight of a dozen gazes. The receptionists, who usually waved, were huddled together, whispering behind their hands. When I walked past a group of nurses near the station, they suddenly went quiet, their eyes tracking me with a mixture of pity and judgment.

I kept my head down, my pulse racing in my ears. I made it to the breakroom, hoping for a moment of peace before my shift started.

Four of my colleagues were already there, gathered around the wall-mounted television. They were so engrossed they didn't hear me walk in.

"I can't believe it's actually her," one of the junior residents said, her voice full of disbelief. "She always seemed so... serious. Almost boring."

"It’s always the quiet ones," another replied. "They’re always walking psycho’s, or in this case a groupie." They chuckled. 

On the screen, the bright lights of a red carpet flashed. It was the Global Sports Summit. The camera panned over to Jake Slater. He looked impeccable, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass, his presence commanding the entire frame.

A reporter thrust a microphone toward him. "Mr. Slater! The internet is losing its mind over the 'Diamond Club Kisser.' It turns out she’s a physical therapist, Dr. Lowe. Do you have a comment on the budding romance?"

Jake stopped. He turned slowly toward the camera, a cold, mocking smirk touching his lips. It was the look of a man who knew he held the world in his palm.

"Romance?" Jake’s laugh was short and dry. "Let's be clear. In this industry, we see women like that every day. They think a kiss is a shortcut to a headline or a payout. If she’s really a doctor, then I feel sorry for her patients. Medicine requires discipline and self-respect; she clearly has neither. She isn't a medical professional; she’s a desperate groupie and an embarrassment to the medical profession. I’d never let a woman like that treat anyone on my team, let alone me."

The breakroom was silent. I stood in the doorway, paralyzed. My colleagues turned, finally noticing me. Their expressions shifted from amusement to horror.

I didn't say a word. I couldn't. I turned and ran.

I pushed through the hospital doors, ignoring the calls of my name. I made it to my car, fumbling with the keys until I finally collapsed into the driver's seat. The tears came then—hot, ugly, and unstoppable. I gripped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white, my sobs echoing in the cramped space.

I was an embarrassment. A groupie.

I drove home blindly, the world blurred by the rain on my windshield and the salt in my eyes from crying. I didn't even turn on the lights when I got inside. I crawled into bed, still in my scrubs, and let the darkness swallow me. I cried until my throat was raw, until there was nothing left but a hollow, aching void.

I must have fallen into a fitful sleep, because when I opened my eyes, the room was dark. My phone was glowing on the carpet where I had dropped it.

I picked it up. It felt like a lead weight.

There were twenty-three missed calls. Fifty-six texts.

I opened the messages first. They were from my private clients. The elite athletes I had spent years building trust with.

“Carrie, my agent saw the interview. We can’t have you coming to the facility anymore. It’s a PR nightmare.”

“Don't bother coming for our session tomorrow. We’re moving in a different direction. Good luck.”

“My wife doesn't want a 'groupie' treating me. Please don't contact us again.”

Every single one of them. Gone. My private practice, the one thing that was supposed to be my ticket to independence, had vanished in a single afternoon.

Then, the phone rang. It was Dr. Sterling—no, not Mark. Dr. Harrison, my mentor and the head of the orthopedic department. The man who had given me my first shot.

I answered with a trembling voice. "Hello?"

"Carrie," he said. He sounded tired. Older than he had yesterday. "I’ve been trying to reach you all day."

"I know, I’m sorry, I just—"

"I’ve had the board in my office since eight this morning, Carrie. The hospital’s social media pages are being flooded with hate. People are calling for your license to be revoked. They’re saying we support 'unprofessional conduct.'"

"It was a mistake, Dr. Harrison. I just found out my husband of three years was cheating on me, I wasn't thinking—"

"I believe you," he interrupted softly. "But the donors don't. And the board doesn't care about the 'why.' They care about the optics. Jake Slater is the golden boy of this city. If he says you’re an embarrassment, the public believes him. I’m so sorry, Carrie. I really am. But we have to let you go. The backlash is just too much."

"You’re firing me? After everything I’ve done for this hospital?"

"I’m asking you to go quietly. If we go through a formal termination, it will be on your permanent record. You’ll never work in California again. If you resign now... maybe you can find something in a smaller market. Somewhere the news hasn't traveled."

I hung up the phone. I didn't even have the energy to argue.

I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the wall. My career was dead. My husband was gone. My reputation was a joke shared by millions of strangers. I was at the bottom of a hole I hadn't even dug for myself.

I looked at my suitcase in the corner of the room.

I had ten thousand dollars in savings. I had a passport. And I had a name that didn't belong to me anymore.

I walked to my desk and pulled out a single sheet of paper. I began to write. Not a resignation letter. Not a plea for help.

I wrote a list of everything Jake Slater had taken from me. My job. My dignity. My pride.

"You want an embarrassment, Jake?" I whispered into the empty room. "I'll give you one. But it won't be mine."

I stood up and grabbed my suitcase. I didn't pack for a smaller market. I didn't pack to hide.

I booked a one-way ticket to London. I would disappear. I would change my face, my hair, and my name. I would study under the specialists in Europe who didn't care about American tabloids. I would become the best in the world.

And then, I would come back for him.

As I walked out of my apartment, I looked at the TV one last time. Jake Slater’s face was still on the screen, smiling at the cameras.

"Enjoy the view from the top, Jake. Because the fall is going to be a long one."

I closed the door behind me and didn't look back. I had made peace with my cancellation. 

"LAX," I told the Uber driver. "And hurry. I have a flight to catch."