“The Morning After? Wyatt Ford Seen Leaving Co-Star Jade Nelson’s Hotel Room.”
The photo is grainy, obviously taken from a distance, but it’s unmistakably him. He’s walking out of her hotel room, a relaxed, happy smile on his face. The article includes a quote from a “hotel staffer” who says they “looked very cozy” and that “he didn’t leave her room until after midnight.”
My phone buzzes. Nico.
Snow, do NOT read the gossip sites. I’m serious. It’s all twisted bullshit.
I stare at her text, my vision blurring with tears.
Too late.
I need to hear his voice. I need him to tell me this isn’t what it looks like. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely unlock my phone, but I manage to pull up his contact. I call.
It goes straight to voicemail. His warm, familiar voice: “Hey, this is Wyatt. Leave a message.”
I hang up. Call again. Voicemail.
I text instead, my thumbs fumbling over the keys.
Please call me. I need to talk to you. It’s important.
Nothing. The message shows delivered, but no response. No three little dots to show he’s typing.
I pace my small living room, my phone clutched in my hand like a lifeline. I don’t want to be this woman. The suspicious, paranoid woman who sees a photo and immediately assumes the worst. Wyatt deserves better than this. Wyatt deserves my trust.
But the silence is deafening.
I call again. And again. Each time, voicemail. Each time, the cold, mechanical message that feels like rejection.
So I sent another text message.
Wyatt, I need to hear your voice. Please call me back.
I stare at my phone, willing it to ring. The silence stretches. Minutes feel like hours.
I call again. This time, it rings. Once. Twice. And then—
“Wyatt—” I gasp into the phone, my voice breaking with relief.
“Hey, babe!” His voice is warm but rushed, and there’s noise in the background — voices, laughter, chaos. “Sorry, it’s crazy here, I’m about to board and, hey, not that bag, the black one! Sorry, what’s up?”
“I—” My throat closes. He sounds so normal. So casual. Like nothing is wrong. “Have you seen, there are photos online, and I—”
“Photos?” He sounds distracted. “Oh, yeah, Leo mentioned something about the shoot going viral. Delilah’s thrilled. Look, I’m literally walking onto the plane. Can we talk about this when I’m home? Should be landing in like six hours. I—”
The line goes dead.
I stand there, frozen, staring at my phone. He didn’t ask what photos. He didn’t sound worried. He just brushed me off. Like it was nothing.
Preston used to do that. Dismiss my concerns. Make me feel like I was overreacting.“You’re being paranoid, Snow. You’re too sensitive.”
No. I’m not waiting six hours. I’m not going to sit here spiraling while he flies home like nothing is wrong. I need answers now.
My hands are steadier this time as I call him back. It rings once. Twice.
Then a woman’s voice answers, bright and cheerful.
“Hello? Wyatt’s phone!”
