“French bread?” I asked, nodding at the bag.
“And chocolates for your mother.” He pulled out a small heart-shaped box.
The tenderness of it made my eyes burn.
As I set the table, I spotted them. A stack of unopened envelopes markedFINAL NOTICEin aggressive red lettering, hastily shoved beneath a kitchen towel, like that would make them disappear.
My stomach dropped to my shoes.
Forty-five minutes later, as we sat around our dining room table, Knox’s empty chair loomed like a ghost. My hand pulsed under the table, the Band-Aid starting to feel damp with blood I prayed they wouldn’t see.
“So,” Mom started, probably trying to lighten the mood. “Dating anyone?”
“No,” I answered immediately. Although, at some point, I’d probably have to tell them about the Axel thing, right?
Predictably, Mom’s lips pursed. “It’s been ages since Mathew moved away.”
Mathew. I swear Mom was just as upset by our breakup as I had been.
But she shouldn’t be focused on me; she should be focused on that stack of final notices on the counter. My attention flicked over to them again, and my father tracked my gaze.
“We’re … exploring our options for the house.”
My fork clattered to my plate. “What do you mean, options?”
They exchanged that look. The one married couples perfected after thirty years, where entire conversations took place in a glance.
“We love this house,” Mom said softly. “All your childhood memories are here. Knox’s room … but if we downsize?—”
“No.” The word shot out sharper than I meant for it to, but honestly, downsize? This was already a tiny place. You didn’t get smaller than this. “You’re not selling this house.”
“Sweetheart.” Dad’s voice turned gentle. “We have to be realistic.”
God, I knew they’d been in trouble. Knew foreclosure was a discussion point, but it had been for years. I guess I didn’t realize it was here. Now. Knocking on the front door.
The stakes just got raised. We needed to sell this love story. Fast.
If I didn’t come up with the money to backpay the mortgage, it was game over.
Guess it was a good thing that in just a few hours, Axel and I would be launching Operation Convince Everyone We’re Soulmates While Actively Plotting Each Other’s Demise.Nothing says true love like barely suppressed homicidal tendencies.
6
POV: YOU’RE TRAPPED IN A FAKE ENGAGEMENT WITH A MAN WHO LOOKS LIKE A CALVIN KLEIN AD IN GRAY SWEATPANTS. #SENDHELPANDSELFCONTROL
DAKOTA
Five hundred and seventy-three likes on last night’s post. Ouch. Definitely worse than my usual numbers, and half the comments section looked like a dumpster fire, but it could be worse.
I scrolled through the mess, bracing myself for more digital daggers, when a familiar username caught my eye. BlushBabe123 had left her usual comment, gushing about how “gorgeous” I looked and throwing around way too many heart-eye emojis.
At least someone still thought I hung the moon. She’d been one of my most consistent followers since I started. Always first to like, always ready with the compliments. Rain or shine, PR scandal or not, there she was. A little over the top? Yes, I’d argue that commenting,You look stunning in yellow. It brings out your eyes, just like that sundress you wore four months ago, constitutes as over the top. But in a world where people dropped you faster than last season’s trends, that kind of loyalty was … nice.
One less thing to worry about, I guess.
I’d already taken the photo with my artisan ceramic mug with the tasteful speckles, not the chipped mug I actually preferred, positioned just right with the morning light. Everything in frame conveyed casual morning elegance I’d post tomorrow. Everything out of frame screamed temporary exile.
I’d set up my lighting equipment in the corner of Axel’s office, arranging the portable ring light and diffuser to hide the twin bed that might as well have hadunwelcome visitorcarved into its headboard.
