“Under false pretenses, Lyle. We need to address that.”

“Fine,” Lyle says, shrugging. “I asked someone else to make the calls in order to hide my identity from you two idiots because I knew if I called, you wouldn’t show up. But the fact remains, I’m the showrunner for Shelby’s second pilot.”

I open my mouth to respond, but Shelby beats me to it. “I’m not an idiot for not wanting to see you again, Lyle. You cheated on me with my best friend, wrote a song blaming me for it, then won a Grammy, all while profiting off the meltdown of my career and sanity. I have plenty of reasons to avoid you.”

Lyle sighs and waves away the two older gentlemen in the room. “I imagine you’ve seen enough. I’ll catch up with you later.” Neither bothers to hide their amusement as they file out and close the glass door behind them with a shisk, leaving us alone.

With our audience gone, Lyle stands, leaning forward and pressing his fingers into the polished surface of the table. “You can hate me all you want, Shelby. I don’t give a shit. Blame me for everything that’s gone wrong in your life. You’ve always loved playing the hapless victim, and I would expect nothing less. But do it while hamming it up for the cameras because whether I like it or not, and believe me, I don’t love it, the viewers want a comeback story featuring America’s fucked-up sweetheart.”

Shelby’s jaw slips, but I’m on my feet again in an instant, my roller chair smacking into the wall and my hands shoving against Lyle’s chest. “You asshole! Are you kidding me? She wasn’t playing the victim! She was the victim and you made her that way!”

Lyle huffs, straightening his suit jacket. “Stay out of this, Riggs. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve been in the fucking desert playing at your own self-importance.”

“I do know what I’m talking about. I was there. Five years ago, when she called me and said you’d run off with her friend and left her humiliated and alone.”

Lyle shakes his head, laughs, and sits back down. “Of fucking course.” He raises his brows to Shelby. “Of course you called him the minute I was gone. Poor Hot Mess Shelby needs Cameron Riggs to come to her rescue. Probably fucked, didn’t you? I should be surprised, yet somehow, I’m not.”

“Good grief, Lyle. Way to be professional.”