His words are meant to shatter me, to equate Wyatt’s betrayal with his own calculated, long-term cruelty. But hearing Wyatt’s name from Preston’s lips, hearing him twist my genuine, hopeful feelings into something cheap and sordid, clarifies everything.
The fog of my sadness begins to burn away, replaced by a white-hot, righteous fury. He’s trying tousemy pain as a negotiating tactic.
I stand my ground. I don’t shrink. I don’t cry. I look him directly in the eye, my own gaze as cold and hard as his. “You know nothing about him,” I say, my voice low and dangerous.
He misreads my strength as simple defiance, and it infuriates him. “Oh, I know enough,” he sneers, his lip curling with contempt. “I know he couldn’t wait to get back to his co-stars. I saw the pictures. Everyone saw the pictures. Even your pretty-boy model prefers the fantasy to you. It must be so humiliating. You’re so desperate for love, you’ll believe anything. That’s why my offer is so generous — I’m doing you a favor. Take the money and disappear before you embarrass yourself any further.”
The words hang in the damp, heavy air of the garage. I see it with perfect, crystalline clarity. Seehimwith perfect, crystalline clarity. He saw the gossip articles and thought, “Perfect. Now she’s vulnerable. Now I can lowball her and she’ll take it.”
He’s been watching me hurt, and instead of any shred of human decency, his first thought was:How can I exploit this?
The sheer, breathtaking cynicism of it is almost comical. After six years of marriage, he knows so little about who I actually am. He thinks heartbreak makes me weak. He doesn’tunderstand that every wound he inflicted taught me to be stronger.
A slow, genuine smile spreads across my face.
Preston sees the smile, and it unnerves him. It’s not a reaction he’s ever seen from me before. “What’s so funny?” he demands, his voice losing its confident, condescending edge.
“You,” I say simply. “You’re what’s funny. You’ve been playing checkers this whole time, Preston. And I’ve been playing chess.” I don’t explain. I don’t give him the satisfaction of understanding. I just turn, walk around his ridiculously expensive car, and head toward the elevator.
When I walk into Patricia’s office, she takes one look at my face and stands immediately. “What happened?”
“Preston ambushed me in the parking garage,” I say, my voice steady and clear. “Tried to intimidate me into accepting whatever insulting offer he sent you. Told me I should take his ‘generous’ deal and disappear before I embarrass myself further.”
Patricia’s expression goes ice cold. “He did what?”
“I want it documented.” I set my purse down and meet her eyes. “Harassment. Intimidation. I want it on record.”
She’s already reaching for her legal pad, her pen flying across the page. “Absolutely. We can use this.” She looks up at me. “Are you alright?”
“I’m perfect,” I say, and I mean it. “Now show me this insulting offer he’s so proud of.”
She slides the document across the table. I scan the terms. It’s a pittance, a fraction of what I’m legally entitled to. It’s designed to make me feel small, worthless, desperate.
Instead, it makes me furious. “Reject it,” I say, sliding it back. “No counteroffer. Nothing. I want to go to trial.”
Patricia’s smile is sharp and predatory. “Are you sure? Discovery, depositions — it could get ugly.”
I think about Preston trying to use my heartbreak over Wyatt as a weapon. “Let it get ugly,” I say. “I’m done protecting him from the consequences of his own actions. We expose everything. All of it becomes public record.”
Patricia nods, satisfied. “I’ll file our response by the end of the day, including the harassment complaint from this morning’s incident.” She meets my eyes. “You’ve made the right choice.”
“I know,” I say. And for the first time in a week, I feel the fog lifting. Preston wanted me broken. Instead, he just reminded me why I’m fighting.
The war isn’t just beginning. I’m already winning.
Chapter 21
Wyatt
It’s been seven days of hell. Seven days of waiting for Nico to give me any sign that Snow might listen. Seven days of printing photos in my darkroom, my hands shaking as images of her emerged in the developer tray. Seven days of convincing Bobby to let me use his bookstore for this desperate plan.
Now I’m hanging my soul on the wall.
Each black-and-white photograph I hang is a piece of me, a desperate attempt to tell a story that words have failed to convey. I’m setting up a small, pop-up photography exhibit in the corner of Book Revue, the place where I first collided with Snow, and I’m so terrified she won’t come that my hands are shaking.
The bookstore is officially closed, but Bobby let me use the space near the café. This is the craziest thing I’ve ever done. It’s not a calculated move from a romance hero’s playbook; it’s a Hail Mary pass from a man who has run out of words.
The vulnerability is terrifying. This is a different kind of exposure than any photoshoot. In those, I’m hiding behind a character. Here, there’s nowhere to hide. This is all me. Whatif she doesn’t come? What if she sees this as just another performance? The fear is making me nauseous.
