“Can you grab it?” I ask, wrestling my bag into the overhead compartment. “If it’s Snow, just tell her I’ll call her the second we land.”
I hear Jade answer cheerfully. “Hello? Wyatt’s phone!” A pause. “Hello?” Another pause. “Oh! This is Jade. Wyatt’s phone kept buzzing, and he asked me to grab it while he dealt with the luggage. Can I take a message?”
She pulls the phone away from her ear, looking confused. “She hung up.”
“Must have dropped again,” I say, finally getting my bag stowed. “I was just talking to her a few minutes ago, and the call dropped. Signal’s terrible here.” I reach for the phone. “Let me—”
“Sir, you need to take your seat,” a flight attendant says firmly. “We’re about to close the cabin doors.”
I drop into my seat, my stomach churning with unease. Something felt off about that call. Snow sounded upset. I try to call her back, but I can’t get a connection. I type out a quick text, hoping it goes through.
Snow, sorry about that chaos. Bad timing with boarding. Call dropped. Headed home to you. Counting down the minutes. Will call you the SECOND we land. Love you so damn much.
The message shows “sending” but never switches to “delivered.” The plane is already taxiing.
Damn it.
Once we’re in the air, I ignore the celebratory champagne Leo is trying to pour. I pull out my phone and scroll through the pictures of Snow, the ones from our trip to the farmers market, the one I took of her laughing on the beach. A deep, lovesick smile spreads across my face.
I put my phone on airplane mode, close my eyes, and picture her face. Six hours. Six hours and I’ll be home. Six hours and I can hold her and make whatever’s wrong right again.
Chapter 17
Snow - Three Days Earlier
Iwake up alone, still exhausted from the night before. Wyatt had kept me awake for hours with his gentle lovemaking, like he was trying to memorize every inch of me before leaving at dawn. I’d fallen back into a deep, dreamless sleep after he left, and now my phone is buzzing on the nightstand.
I reach for it, blinking against the morning light. His texts from the airport and the one he just sent saying he’s landed fill my screen. His words are a warm, reassuring presence. I smile, the feeling of his love a temporary shield against the distance.
Love you too. Go be the handsome, brooding hero. I’ll be here when you get back.
I send the text, trying to project a confidence I don’t entirely feel. I trust him. I do. But the world he works in, the world of manufactured beauty and performative passion, has always been a source of low-level anxiety for me. It’s a world that feels dangerously close to the one I escaped, a world built on beautiful, believable lies.
I throw myself into my work, hoping to silence the insecure voice in my head. I spread the financials for a new client acrossmy dining room table, the clean, logical lines of the spreadsheets a welcome distraction. I have a video call with the client, a woman who runs a small, sustainable apiary in Vermont, and her passion for her business is infectious. For an hour, I forget about St. Lucia, forget about the divorce papers Patricia says should be finalized any day now, forget about everything except strategy and growth.
But the moment the call ends, my mind drifts back to him. I picture him on a beach, the sun warming his skin, the camera capturing the handsome, brooding hero he plays so well. I picture the beautiful people, the glamour, the falseness of it all. I push the feeling down, chiding myself for my insecurity. He is not Preston. He has shown me, with his actions, that he is different.
Preston made me feel small; Wyatt makes me feel seen. Preston dismissed my dreams; Wyatt asks about them, remembers the details, helps me plan. Preston never built me anything — he just bought expensive things his assistant picked out. Wyatt spent weeks building me a bookshelf with his own hands. Morning coffee without being asked. Late-night talks that last until dawn. The way he looks at me like I’m the only person in the room. I have to believe that.
Late in the afternoon — barely twelve hours since he left — my phone buzzes with a text from Nico.
OMG, your man is on FIRE! Check this out!
She’s sent a link to a popular romance blog. I smile, clicking it, curious to see what she’s found. The page loads, and my breath catches. It’s a gallery of photos from the shoot. Wyatt and Jade are on the black-sand beach, the sunset casting them in a fiery, dramatic glow. The chemistry in the photos is undeniable, a perfect, cinematic illusion of desperate, all-consuming love. The caption is a gushing river of superlatives:“The chemistry isundeniable! First look at Wyatt Ford and Jade Nelson on the set of Delilah Drake’s ‘Crimson Curse’ finale! We are breathless!”
The images are so potent, so passionate. I know it’s his job. I know it’s a performance. But the old wound from Preston’s betrayal, the one I thought was beginning to heal, gives a painful, familiar throb.
That night, I climb into bed with one of the books he’s on the cover of — a historical romance I bought months ago, back when Wyatt and I first started dating, but never got around to reading. I study the cover: Wyatt in period costume, his expression brooding and intense, his shirt strategically unbuttoned. It’s a reminder. This is his job. Looking devastatingly handsome with beautiful women is what he does for a living. The photos from St. Lucia are no different than this book cover. Just another performance. Just work.
I repeat it to myself like a mantra until I fall into an uneasy sleep.
The second morning without him, I woke to another brief text from Wyatt — just a quick “Good morning, thinking of you, I love you so damn much” with a heart emoji. It’s sweet, but I’m still unsettled.
I make coffee and settle onto my couch with my laptop, telling myself I’m going to work on my business plan. But my focus is shot. I find myself drifting to social media, scrolling through the romance reader communities I sometimes lurk in.
That’s when I see it. The comments. Everywhere.
Wyatt and Jade are GOALS. That chemistry is insane!
