Snow.
Oh, God. Snow. I know her history. I know her deepest fear is being made a fool of again, of falling for another beautiful lie. And I, in my blind, trusting stupidity, have just handed her a mountain of high-resolution, professionally packaged “proof” that I am exactly the man she fears most.
“Wyatt?”
I look up. Jade is standing a few feet away, luggage at her feet, staring at her own phone with a bemused smile. “Have youseen—” She looks up, sees my face, and her smile falters. “Oh. You’ve seen it.”
“They set us up,” I choke out. “Leo and Delilah. The whole thing.”
“Yeah, I figured.” She shrugs, surprisingly unbothered. “Clara already saw the articles. She’s laughing her ass off.” Her smile returns. “Sneaky bastards, though. That photographer must have been camped out in the hallway. The zipper thing — God, they’re going to milk that for all it’s worth.”
She’s treating this like an annoyance. A professional inconvenience. She doesn’t understand.
“Jade.” My voice comes out strangled. “Snow…”
Jade’s smile disappears instantly. “Oh shit. Wyatt, I’m so sorry, I didn’t think—” She stops, her eyes widening as something clicks. “Wait. That call. The one that dropped. The one where I answered your phone when we were boarding.”
The memory hits me like a freight train. Snow’s strained voice. “Have you seen, there are photos online, and I—” And I’d brushed her off. Told her we’d talk when I got home. Then the call dropped. Then Jade answered the second call.
“Oh my God,” Jade whispers, her hand covering her mouth. “Wyatt, I answered your phone. Right after these photos went live. She must think… Let me call her,” she says urgently. “Let me explain. I can tell her about Clara, about the zipper, about—”
“No.” I’m already pulling up Snow’s contact. “I need to—I have to—”
My hands are shaking as I jab at her name in my contacts. I press the call button, my heart hammering against my ribs.
It doesn’t ring. It goes straight to a cold, impersonal, automated voice. “The person you are trying to reach is not available at this time.”
I try again. And again. The same result.
She’s blocked me.
I’m already moving, grabbing my bag, leaving everything else. Leo can deal with the rest of the luggage. I don’t care.
“Wyatt!” Jade calls after me as I sprint toward customs. “Wyatt, wait! Call me if Clara or I can do anything! Anything at all!”
I don’t stop. Can’t stop. The private charter meant we landed at Teterboro - smaller, faster to get through. It’s early afternoon on a weekday, and customs is nearly empty. I fly through in minutes, my Global Entry clearing me without delay. My truck is in long-term parking, where I left it four days ago. Four days. It feels like a lifetime.
The drive from Teterboro to Garden City is a special kind of hell. I replay every innocent moment from the trip, seeing it now through the poisoned lens of the media narrative. I feel like a fool.
I pull up to her cottage, my tires screeching on the quiet, suburban street. All the curtains are drawn.
“Snow!” I yell as I pound on the door, my voice rough with a desperation that borders on panic. “Snow, please! Open the door! Just talk to me for five minutes! Let me explain! It’s not what it looks like!”
There is only silence. A heavy, unyielding silence that is more painful than any angry words could be. I know she’s in there. I can feel her, a wounded presence on the other side of the door, and the knowledge that I am the one who caused her pain is a sharp, twisting knife in my gut.
I pull out my phone, my fingers clumsy with cold and panic, and send a barrage of texts I know she will never read, but I can’t stop myself.
Snow, please. It was a setup. A publicity stunt. I had no idea.
Jade is my friend. She’s married. To a woman. I was at their wedding.
Please don’t shut me out. Don’t let them win. Talk to me. Let me make this right. I’m so sorry. I love you so damn much.
The messages sit there, marked as delivered, but I know they’re going nowhere. She’s blocked me. They’ll never reach her. The irony is a bitter, metallic taste in my mouth. My job is to be the hero - the billionaire who always knows what to do, the knight who slays the dragon, the one who always gets the girl. But right now, standing on this porch like a stalker, I’m just a man who has royally, catastrophically screwed up, with no idea how to fix it.
My phone buzzes in my hand. For a foolish, hopeful second, my heart leaps. But it’s not her. It’s a text from an unknown number.
Meet me. Now. We need to talk, Nico.
