"I can't do this anymore." He declared.

It wasn't entirely clear if he meant the marriage, or the fame, or the drinking. Maybe all of it... Maybe none of it.

Your affair started with a stolen cigarette and a knowing smile. He was currently in the middle of a bitter, headline-splashed divorce from his fifth wife who was bleeding him dry in court. It was a messy and drawn-out process, the papers were still being thrown back and forth, his reputation on the line. He had never really been one to hide his personal life, especially when it was crumbling in front of everyone. The way he talked about it, it was clear there was a lot of resentment.

You weren't supposed to mean anything, just a drink, maybe a night or two to remind him he was still Jack Conrad. But ever since you'd met, it had been hotels at midnight, whispered apologies he never explained, and you... Always waiting just a little longer than you should've. He hadn't told a soul about you. Not his agent. Not even George, and Jack told George nearly everything. You were still a secret, somewhere between an escape and a confession he hadn't had the guts to make.

"She's trying to take the house in Palm Springs," he complained, pacing barefoot on the tile, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his robe barely tied. "Can you believe that? I bought her that house after Cannes."

The sun was just starting to dip below the skyline, casting long shadows over the city as you now stood beside him on his penthouse balcony. "Fifth time around, you'd think I'd have learned." He scoffed and slipped an arm around your shoulders, his gaze flicking to the horizon. "I told her she could have the whole damn ocean if she'd stop calling me during dinner."