“All lies,” Derek says, grinning. “We’re actually terrible people.”
The easy banter helps. I see Snow starting to relax, her smile becoming more genuine. We’re all chatting in the kitchen when the buzzer rings again.
The change in Snow is immediate. Her entire body goes rigid. Her hand, which had been resting casually on the counter, clenches into a fist. I see her take a deliberate breath, the kind you take when you’re trying not to panic.
I move closer to her, my hand finding the small of her back. “You sure?” I ask quietly, giving her one last out.
She nods, not trusting her voice.
I open the door. Jade and Clara are standing there, and for a split second, as Snow and Jade see each other for the first time since the media storm, the air in the room is charged with the memory of it.
I see Snow’s face pale. I see her swallow hard. I see her fingers dig into the edge of the counter. And I see the exact moment the photos flash through her mind — Wyatt and Jade, candlelight, champagne, his hand covering hers. The image that shattered her trust.
Then Clara, who is a bubbly, unstoppable force of nature, seems to read the room instantly. She breezes past Jade and throws her arms around Snow.
“Oh my god, Snow, it is so good to finally meet you!” she exclaims, her voice full of genuine warmth. She pulls back but keeps her hands on Snow’s shoulders, looking her directly in theeyes. “And I am so, so sorry for the absolute nightmare my wife and your boyfriend put you through.”
The directness seems to shock Snow out of her panic. “I — thank you.”
“That publicist,” Clara continues, shaking her head. “What an absolute trash fire of a human being. I told Jade, if I ever meet that man, I’m going to have words. And by words, I mean I’m going to make him cry.”
Despite herself, Snow lets out a startled laugh.
Jade steps forward more cautiously. She’s watching Snow with careful, kind eyes. “Hi, Snow. I’m Jade.” She doesn’t try to hug her, doesn’t invade her space. “I wanted to say — and I know this doesn’t fix anything — but I’m really sorry. I should have realized what that publicist was doing. I should have shut it down.”
Snow is quiet for a moment, and I can see her processing, fighting through the emotional reaction to see the reality in front of her. Jade, holding Clara’s hand. The way they lean into each other. The rings on their fingers.
“It’s not your fault,” Snow says finally, her voice a little shaky but sincere. “You were both used.”
“We were,” Jade agrees. “And for the record, Wyatt is a terrible fake boyfriend.”
The joke hangs in the air, and I hold my breath. Is it too soon? Too flip?
But then Jade continues, her eyes twinkling with gentle humor. “He spent our entire ‘romantic’ dinner talking about you and showing me photos of your dates. I told Clara afterward that I’d never seen someone so lovesick. It was actually kind of adorable, if you’re into that sort of thing.”
“She is definitely not into that sort of thing,” Clara adds. “I, however, am. Which is why we work.”
Something in Snow’s posture shifts. Not completely relaxed — there’s still tension thrumming through her — but the panic has faded.
“I heard about the zipper incident,” Snow says quietly, and I’m amazed at her courage. She’s naming it, confronting it directly.
“Oh my god, that stupid zipper,” Clara groans. “Jade FaceTimed me specifically so I could watch Wyatt struggle with it. It took him like five minutes to get it unstuck. He has absolutely no fine motor skills.”
“Hey,” I protest weakly.
“It’s true and you know it,” Clara says. “You build beautiful furniture with power tools, but ask you to thread a needle or unstick a zipper? Hopeless.”
The tension breaks. Not completely — I can still see Snow’s careful awareness, the way she’s monitoring her own reactions — but there’s laughter now. Real laughter.
We move to the table, and dinner begins. The conversation flows, helped along by Derek’s terrible jokes and Annette’s embarrassing stories about our college days. Every so often, I catch Snow’s eye across the table. Each time, I ask silently: You okay? And each time, she gives me a small nod.
At one point, Derek pulls out his phone to show Annette a photo, and somehow we end up looking at my old modeling portfolio. Derek scrolls through, finding the most ridiculous shots — mostly of me dressed as a pirate.
“These are hilarious,” Annette cackles. “Snow, have you seen these?”
I expect Snow to tense up again — photos of me with other models, performing, exactly what triggered her trauma. But instead, she leans in to look, and I see her actively choosing not to let it hurt her.
“I don’t know,” Snow says, a playful glint in her eye as she looks at the Highlander shot. “I’m partial to the kilt. There’s something about a man who’s not afraid of a little plaid.”
