The Kiss That Ended Everything

I don’t remember leaving the stage.

One second I’m staring at Theo’s mouth on hers, the next I’m shoving through bodies, past trays of champagne, past people calling my name like it still belongs to me.

I need a bathroom. Any bathroom. Somewhere I can lock the door and scream without two hundred phones recording it.

I find the private one behind the ballroom (meant for brides and VIPs), slam the lock, and fall against the door.

Then I throw up.

Not dramatic little heaves. Full-body, soul-ripping vomit. Ginger ale and the three bites of toast I managed this morning splatter the floor. My knees hit the tiles so hard the pain shoots up my thighs, but I don’t care. I’m shaking too hard to stand.

The baby. Oh God, the baby.

I curl over the toilet like I can protect it from what just happened.

My phone is blowing up in my clutch (buzzing against my hip like a trapped wasp). I yank it out with wet fingers.

312 new notifications.

The top one is a push alert:

BREAKING: Whitford Tech CEO Theo Whitford announces college sweetheart Amara Quinn as “the woman I’ve always loved” in shocking on-stage kiss at anniversary gala. Wife Livia Whitford flees in tears. Video inside.

There’s already a video.

I click it because I’m weird.

It’s worse in slow motion. Theo’s hand sliding into Amara’s hair. Her nails digging into his tux. The way he smiles into the kiss like he’s been starving for it.

Comments are flooding in.

I drop the phone. It clatters on the marble.

Another wave of nausea hits. I barely make the toilet this time.

When it passes I’m on my hands and knees, dress pooled around me like spilled ink, diamonds cutting into my collarbones. I catch my reflection in the mirror across the room.

Fourteen-thousand-dollar dress. Smeared lipstick. Mascara rivers. The girl from Oregon looks back at me like she’s saying, Told you so.

I laugh. It comes out broken.

My phone starts ringing (Theo’s ringtone). I reject it. Again. Again. Then a text.

Theo: Babe where are you? We need to talk. Come back out here.

Babe.

I stare at the word until it stops making sense.

Another text, same thread.

Theo: People are asking questions. Just come smile and we’ll figure it out later.

Smile.

I type with shaking thumbs.

Me: Figure what out? That you just tongue-fucked your ex in front of the entire Valley while I was about to tell you I’m pregnant?

The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Theo: …You’re pregnant?

No heart emojis. No exclamation points. Just those two words and a period.

I almost throw the phone at the mirror.

Instead I open T*****r (now X, whatever) and type the handle I swore I’d never make public.

@LiviaActually Verified in two minutes because chaos moves fast.

I attach the ultrasound photo (the one that’s been crumpled in my fist so long the edges are soft).

Caption: 8 weeks today. Surprise, @TheoWhitford. Happy anniversary.

Send.

The internet explodes so hard my phone freezes.

I turn it off. Shove it into my clutch like it’s radioactive.

I need to get out of here. Out of this dress, this hotel, this life.

I splash water on my face, fix what I can. Lipstick’s gone, eyes are red, but the ice-queen mask is sliding into place because it’s the only thing I have left.

Someone knocks (soft, hesitant).

“Livia?” Female voice I don’t recognize. “Are you okay? People are…”

“Fuck off,” I snap. My voice sounds like gravel.

Silence.

I grab paper towels, wipe the floor as best I can. Leave the mess for someone else to find. I’m done cleaning up after Whitfords.

When I open the door, three women jump back. Phones lowered, guilty.

I walk past them like I’m made of steel.

The hallway is packed. People part like I’m contagious. Whispers follow me.

I hear Amara’s laugh from the ballroom (high, triumphant). Theo’s lower murmur answering her.

I keep walking.

Past the coat check. Past the valet. Into the lobby where the cold San Francisco air hits my wet cheeks like a slap.

I have no plan. No car (mine is with the driver who works for Theo). No wallet (left it in the clutch with the phone I can’t look at).

I’m barefoot now (heels dangling from my fingers) because one snapped on stage and I kicked the other off somewhere.

A black Maybach stops at the curb. Tinted windows. Engine purring like a predator.

The back window slides down two inches.

A voice I haven’t heard in eight years (low, amused, dangerous) floats out.

“Get in, Livia.”

Alexander Kane.

Of course it’s Alexander fucking Kane.

The man whose internship I turned down because Theo said, “He’ll own you, body and soul. I want you with me.”

The man who’s been quietly buying Whitford Tech stock for eighteen months. I know because I’m the one who noticed the filings.

The man whose eyes always found me across rooms like he was waiting for something.

I’m shaking with cold and rage and the kind of exhaustion that feels permanent.

He leans forward just enough for the streetlight to catch his face (sharp cheekbones, dark hair, that stupidly unfair mouth). Same Alexander who watched me dismantle his board at twenty-one and offered me a job on the spot.

The window lowers another inch.

“I’ve been waiting for Theo to fuck up this badly for years,” he says, soft. “Get in. Let me buy you a drink and we’ll start burning his world down.”

I should say no.

I should call my mom, my lawyer, anyone.

Instead I open the door and slide into the warm leather.

The car pulls away before I even close the door.

And I don’t look back.