Brandon's POV
The screen glowed too brightly.
That was the first thing I noticed.
Not the audience murmuring in anticipation.
Not the faint hum of studio lights or the makeup artist's nervous pacing behind the cameras. Just the TV monitor mounted to the wall in front of me—huge, unforgiving, alive.
And on it—
Casey.
Frozen mid-smile.
My name sat in the corner of the screen like a curse I couldn't outrun.
I stared at it as if the longer I looked, the more it would explain itself. As if it would suddenly rewind and tell me when my life slipped out of my hands and into hers.
My chest tightened.
This was real.
This was live.
And this—this was spiraling.
Fabiola's voice echoed faintly from the stage, calm and polished, slicing through my thoughts like a blade wrapped in velvet.
"So, Brandon," she had asked before the clip rolled, leaning forward in that practiced way that told you she was about to dig.
