Addicted To The MC President

Chapter Three Blistered Feet

~ Lily ~

The first thing I notice after getting out of the building is the rain, and the second is the silence.

It isn’t actual silence, because there are still horns blaring, engines roaring, and the muffled chatter of a city of millions breathing around me.

But for the first time all night, nobody is asking me to smile, nobody is asking me to pose, and nobody is asking me to lie.

And as the doors slam shut behind me, I step onto the wet sidewalk and cold air brushes against my skin and almost immediately, my phone starts vibrating in my hand.

I don't need to look at the screen to know it's Dylan calling.

I keep walking, my heels clicking against the concrete as the phone vibrates again, and again, and again.

It's almost impressive how quickly a man's concern appears the second his public image goes up in flames.

Across the street, people are already staring at their screens, and somewhere inside the hotel, journalists are probably fighting each other for quotes.

While somewhere online, clips of my announcement are spreading faster than common sense.

Good.

Let it burn.

My phone rings again with Dylan's name flashing across the screen, and I promptly hit decline.

A second later, another call appears from him, and I decline that one too.

Honestly, if he'd put this much effort into our marriage, we might have avoided the entire evening.

I slip the phone into my purse and keep moving down the street.

Nobody stops me and nobody follows me, which feels entirely surreal.

I usually travel with an entourage of security, drivers, assistants, and tight schedules.

My life is populated by people whose entire careers revolve around making sure I never have to experience a single moment of inconvenience.

Tonight, I left all of them behind with no permission, no discussion, and no planning.

I just walked out.

The realisation makes a small, genuine smile touch my lips because I can't remember the last time I did something impulsive.

My entire life is scheduled days in advance, from the lunches and meetings to the flights.

Even my breakdowns usually have a designated slot on the calendar.

The city blurs around me in a rush of wet reflections and glowing windows as people hurry past with their heads down and faces hidden beneath a sea of umbrellas while yellow taxis splash through deep puddles on the asphalt.

Life out here just continues with none of these strangers having any idea they’ve just witnessed the most reckless thing I've done in years.

Immediately my phone vibrates violently against my palm again. This time, the screen lights up with Ginger’s name.

I stare at it for a second, then decline her call too.

I love her, but I can't talk right now because if I stop moving, I might start thinking.

And if I start thinking, I might accidentally start having regrets and I can't have that my therapist would probably disagree which is exactly why I'm not calling her either till this blows over.

As I walk I pass a block, then another, and my feet immediately start to hurt.

And I realise that, though the Valentino heels looked incredible in photographs, unfortunately, they were apparently designed by someone who harbours a deep hatred for women.

I glance down at the silver shoes gleaming beneath the streetlights.

They are beautiful, expensive, and absolute murder weapons.

A woman carrying a coffee nearly bumps into me on the sidewalk.

"Sorry," she says quickly.

"No problem," I reply.

She flashes a polite smile and keeps walking, and that's the end of it.

There is no recognition, no headlines, and no intrusive questions she's just a stranger apologising for almost spilling her drink.

The interaction affects me far more than it should, because for years, people have only spoken to Lily Ryder, the billionaire, the heiress, the CEO, the public figure.

Very few people ever just speak to Lily.

My phone buzzes again, and a news alert flashes across the lock screen announcing that.. “Lily Ryder has just declared she has been secretly divorced during a live charity event.”

I stare at the headline and laugh.

A real, amused laugh bubbles out of me, earning a concerned look from a man walking his dog.

Fair enough, because a wealthy woman wandering through Manhattan alone in a downpour while laughing at her phone probably looks entirely unhinged.

Then again, I might actually be unhinged.

The last three hours have been anything but normal.

After locking the screen, I keep moving as the light drizzle turns into steady rainfall, causing tiny droplets to cling to my hair.

The city begins to smell different when it rains, and the farther I get from the hotel, the lighter I feel, though a part of me knows that logic feels entirely wrong.

Shouldn't I be devastated, or crying, or sitting confused in the back of a luxury vehicle questioning my decision?

Instead, I'm walking through Manhattan with sore feet and a rapidly collapsing public image, and somehow, I feel better than I did this morning.

That's probably a bad decision, or a breakthrough, but sometimes they're the exact same thing.

My phone buzzes with another call from Dylan, which I decline, followed immediately by another that meets the same fate.

Then a text appears from him telling me to answer my phone, quickly followed by another asking what the hell I was thinking.

That second message actually makes me stop walking, not because it hurts, but because it's genuinely funny.

What was I thinking?

It is an interesting question.

I was thinking about the blonde in your lap, the girls laughing at me upstairs, six months of pretending to still be married, and just how exhausted I am of everything.

Instead of replying, I lock the phone because some conversations are just a nerve-racking waste of time.

As rain fell heavily, my feet ache, and my hair is definitely ruined and somewhere in the city, my stylist Sebastian is probably sensing this disturbance in the universe and developing stress hives.

I almost feel bad for him.

Almost.

A sharp pain shoots through my heel, making me wince as I realise I've probably walked far enough.

I glance around the street, looking for a car service or a stray taxi, when I suddenly hear music.

It’s faint, almost entirely hidden beneath the steady noise of traffic.

I stop and listen until I hear the smoky notes of a trumpet and a piano.

It isn’t pop or club music.

It's classic jazz drifting from somewhere nearby.

Curiosity nudges at me, and I follow the melody half a block down until I find the source.

It is a narrow doorway tucked discreetly between two ordinary brick buildings, with no bright neon signs, no velvet ropes, and no paparazzi waiting in the shadows.

There is only a small brass plaque and a concrete staircase disappearing underground as warm, amber light spills upward from the landing below, and the music becomes clearer, intermingled with the sound of real laughter.

It isn't the strategic networking laughter of a fundraiser, but the kind of sound people make when they’re actually happy.

I stand at the top of the stairs with the rain falling against my back while the rest of the city buzzes around me.

Interrupting my thought was my phone as it vibrated again, but this time, I don't even look at it and for one strange, suspended moment, it feels like I'm standing directly between two completely different lives.

One above ground that is entirely familiar.

And one below that is completely unknown.

The smart, responsible, reasonable thing to do would be to find a ride home, which is probably exactly why I don't do it.

Instead, I tighten my grip on my purse, take a deep breath, and start walking down the stairs toward the music, the laughter, and the warm light waiting below, entirely unaware of the man who is about to change everything.