“How do you know?”
“I’ve seen the way you talk about her,” my mama says, smiling through her tears. “I’ve seen your face light up when you mention her name. I’ve watched you become more yourself sinceyou met her. That kind of love doesn’t come around often. And from what you’ve told us about Snow, she feels the same way. She’s just scared. And she has every right to be scared after what that idiot did to her.”
“Give her a reason not to be scared,” my dad says. “Show her that you’re different. Show her that you see her. Show her what you see when you look at her.”
The idea is fully formed now, terrifying and desperate and exactly right. “I need to go,” I say suddenly. “I need to start working on this. I need to—”
“Go,” my mama says, laughing a little through her tears. “Go. But Wyatt?”
“Yeah?”
“Call us tomorrow,” my mama adds. “Just to check in. Even if it’s just a text. We need to know you’re alive and breathing.”
“I will. I promise.”
“And honey?” She leans closer to the camera. “We’re proud of you. For fighting for her. For being brave enough to be vulnerable. That takes real courage.”
“Thanks, Mama.”
“You got this, bro,” Tyler says, his voice serious for once.
After we hang up, I sit in the quiet of my loft for a long moment. Then I stand up and walk to my darkroom. I have work to do.
I start pulling prints from my files — photos I’ve taken over the past three months. Moments I captured because I couldn’t help myself, because I was falling in love with her, and photography was the only way I knew how to hold onto those moments.
I look around my darkroom at the photos covering every surface. The truth lay bare in black and white. Performance versus reality. The fake versus the real.
My dad was right. Words won’t fix this. But maybe I can show her what I don’t have the words to say.
Chapter 20
Snow
The parking garage beneath Patricia’s office building is dim and quiet, the air heavy with exhaust and concrete. I pull into a spot and sit for a moment, my hands still gripping the steering wheel, trying to summon the energy to face this meeting.
Patricia called this morning to go over Preston’s revised settlement offer. She wouldn’t tell me the details over the phone, just said we needed to meet. The tone in her voice told me everything I needed to know: it’s not good.
The past week has been a self-imposed hell. A gray, featureless landscape of time, measured out in tears and the patient, unwavering presence of Nico. She’s been my rock, my anchor, letting me cry, letting me rage, letting me be silent. I’ve been living in a fog of heartbreak and humiliation, replaying the images of Wyatt and Jade over and over in my mind until they’re burned onto the back of my eyelids.
I grab my purse and step out of the car. I’m already thinking about how to hold myself together through this meeting when I hear it — the low hum of an engine behind me. A sleek, blackMercedes glides up, blocking me in, its headlights pinning me like a startled animal.
Preston gets out, looking impeccable in a tailored navy suit. He moves with a languid, predatory grace, his expression a carefully constructed mask of condescending pity.
A flicker of fear shoots through me. My palms get slick with sweat. My heart starts a frantic, panicked rhythm against my ribs.
Of course, he knew I was here. Patricia’s office address is on all the divorce paperwork. He probably had his driver wait in the garage, watching for my car. It’s exactly the kind of controlling move he’d make.
“Snow,” he says, his voice a smooth, condescending purr. “I was hoping I’d catch you before your meeting. Have you seen my revised offer yet? I think you’ll find it’s more than generous, under the circumstances.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, my voice coming out thinner than I’d like.
He laughs, a short, ugly sound that holds no humor. “Don’t play coy. Your shark of a lawyer has the documents. I’m giving you a chance to be reasonable before you waste both our time. You won’t get a better deal in court. You’re a mess right now. I’ve heard all about it.” He takes a step closer, invading my personal space, forcing me to tilt my head back to look at him. “See? This is what happens when you try to play in the real world. You get hurt. You should have stayed where you belonged, under my protection.”
His words are meant to wound, to remind me of my supposed fragility. But something about the calculated cruelty of ambushing me here starts to burn through the fog.
Then he unsheathes his final weapon.
“Oh yes, I know all about your little fling with the romance novel cover boy, Wyatt Ford,” he says, his voice dripping withfalse sympathy. “How’s that working out for you? Hard to miss when it’s all over the gossip sites. All men are alike, Snow. We all lie. The only difference is, my lies came with a mansion and a black Amex. His come with a pretty face and a six-pack.”
