The world stops. My lungs forget how to work. I can hear her breathing, can hear background noise — the same voices, the same chaos from Wyatt’s call.
“Hello?” she says again, a laugh in her voice.
“Who is this?” I manage to choke out, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Oh! This is Jade,” she says, her tone warm and friendly, completely oblivious to the devastation she’s causing.
I hang up.
The pain is a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. But the shame, the humiliation of being made a fool of again, is infinitely worse.
My phone is still in my hand, the screen blurring through my tears. A notification pops up. Another article. My thumb moves automatically, opening it before my brain can stop me.
ROMANCE COVERBOY WYATT FORD CAUGHT SNEAKING OUT OF CO-STAR’S HOTEL ROOM AFTER MIDNIGHT
With a cry of pure, animal pain, I throw the phone across the room. It hits the wall with a sickening crack. I stumble over to it, my movements jerky and robotic. The screen is shattered, spider-web cracks radiating from the impact point, but it’s still glowing. With a trembling finger, I find his name in my contacts and block him. The action is small, digital, but it feels like slamming a steel door on my own heart.
My eyes land on the bookshelf he built me. It stands against the wall, sturdy and beautiful, every joint perfect, every edge sanded smooth. He spent weeks on it. Measured twice, cut once, he’d said with that soft smile. Built it with his own hands while I watched, falling in love with the careful, patient way he worked.
The day he finished it, we’d sat on my couch together, and I’d looked up at him and whispered, “I love you, you know.” I’d been terrified he wouldn’t say it back, that I’d said it too soon, that I’d ruin everything. But he’d pulled me close, buried his face in my hair, and said, “I love you too. So damn much.” Like the words had been waiting inside him, just looking for permission to come out.
That was three weeks ago. Three weeks of believing I’d finally found something real.
The same hands that built that bookshelf, the same hands that held me that day, are the hands that were photographed leaving another woman’s hotel room.
I thought it was real. I thought he was real.
I curl up on my sofa, pulling a thick blanket over my head, shutting out the light. My phone buzzes. Again and again. I know it’s Nico. Calling, texting, probably on her way over.
I don’t answer. I can’t.
Chapter 18
Wyatt
My body is exhausted from the flight, but my heart is light, buzzing with an energy that has nothing to do with caffeine and everything to do with Snow. The moment the plane touches down at Teterboro, I’m fumbling for my phone, a wide, lovesick smile already on my face as I switch it out of airplane mode, eager to see her reply to my text.
My phone explodes.
It’s a violent, jarring deluge of notifications. But none of them are from Snow. It’s a flood of alerts from Instagram and Twitter, and a series of increasingly frantic messages from my friend Derek.
Dude. What the hell is going on? Call me.
Have you seen the gossip sites?
Wyatt, this is bad. She’s going to see this and not understand.
A cold dread, sharp and immediate, cuts through my post-flight haze. I click on the link Derek sent. The page loads, a sleazy gossip site with a screaming headline:“Co-stars or Couple? Wyatt Ford and Jade Nelson’s Intimate Island Dinner.”
My world shatters. I scroll frantically, my blood turning to ice in my veins. There they are: the photos of the dinner, expertly shot to look as romantic as possible. The article is a toxic stew of innuendo and anonymous sources, painting a picture of a clandestine romance.
Then I see another link.“The Morning After? Wyatt Ford Seen Leaving Co-Star Jade Nelson’s Hotel Room.”The photo of me leaving her room after the zipper incident is grainy, voyeuristic, and utterly damning.
Disbelief gives way to a cold, sickening horror. I see it now. The over-the-top enthusiasm from Leo and Delilah. The “accidental” reservation mix-up. The perfectly positioned photographer at the restaurant. It was a setup. A deliberate, calculated publicity-stunt ambush.
But we made it so much worse. We handed them more ammunition. That photographer didn’t just get the dinner shots — he followed us back to our rooms. He was lurking in the hallway waiting for… what? And we gave him exactly what he wanted. Me, leaving Jade’s room after midnight, smiling like an idiot.
My fury at Leo and Delilah is a white-hot flash, but it’s instantly extinguished by a tidal wave of pure, gut-wrenching panic.
