And Amayah Harper definitely seemed too saintly to be authentic.
Somehow, he needed to prove that.
CHAPTER 3
The kettle sang softlyon the stove, steam curling upward. Luke listened as Amayah apologized for the hot chocolate packets—homemade was better, she insisted. Then she poured the boiling water into two matching ceramic mugs.
He watched her as she worked, noting the casual but stylish outfit she wore—black jeans with a burgundy sweater and black boots. He’d known before meeting her face-to-face that she was beautiful and that the camera loved her. But she was even more stunning in real life.
Not that this changed anything. Not that her attractiveness should give her a pass on living a lie and facing the consequences of that.
Other influencers had been caught in their deceit. The woman who’d faked cancer. The mother who’d claimed she was kidnapped but wasn’t. The fitness guru who didn’t actually use the dangerous supplements he pushed.
There were no gatekeepers to the information they put out there, which gave these people free rein to push whatever narrative they desired.
But maybe Luke could be that gatekeeper—not just to make a name for himself, but to protect innocent, vulnerable people who were buying what these people sold.
As Amayah finished stirring the hot chocolate, he remained alert, scanning the room as if trouble might suddenly appear again.
Then Luke’s gaze swept over the table, and he squinted.
Papers sat in a folder in the opposite corner. They ordinarily may not have caught his attention, but one of them . . .
He leaned closer.
One paper poked out, the corner showing. It almost looked like a real estate contract. In fact, he recognized that logo on the top corner as that of a local agency.
His heart pounded harder.
Maybe the rumorwastrue. Maybe Amayah really was pretending to live in paltry circumstances while she was secretly building her dream house.
Disappointment flooded him. For a moment, he’d hoped he was wrong. He’d hoped that Amayah was the real deal—someone who’d forgone luxury in favor of a personal mission.
If he could only get a better look at that paper . . .
It could be the evidence he needed for this article.
“All done!” Amayah finished the drinks with a flourish—whipped cream on top sprinkled with crushed peppermint—before carrying the mugs to the small kitchen table and setting his drink in front of him.
At once, the aroma of the hot chocolate and peppermint filled him with comfort, the feeling a sharp contrast to the rock still lodged in his chest.
Luke thanked her, and for the first time since he’d gotten here, he took in her house—really took it in. Not looking for trouble but as a way of learning more about Amayah.
The space was beautiful and warm. It felt layered. Earnest. Almost reverent.
Everything was decorated beautifully for Christmas, mostly using natural garlands and handmade bows. The Christmas tree glimmered with colorful lights near the couch in the other room. It was far from perfect with its mishmash of ornaments, many appearing as if they’d been made by a child.
Near the far wall, an old wooden door—stained in oak—leaned upright. Its paint was faded, touched with time, and squares of paper covered its surface. He’d glimpsed it earlier when he searched the house, and he’d noticed handwritten prayers on the papers.
Amayah had probably done that for one of her videos.
Beside the entryway stood a narrow display of vintage doorknobs, polished brass and worn iron, each mounted like relics on the wall. She’d hung her coat on one as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Luke glanced back at the table—his eyes lingered on that folder a moment—before looking at his notebook. He pulled it closer. “I guess we should start from the beginning. From what I understand, your background was in marketing?”
“Yes.” Amayah smiled faintly as though remembering a former version of herself. “After college, I landed what I thought was my dream job. I was a strategist for a luxury real estate brand. Custom homes, designer staging, curated lifestyles. I helped sell the idea of perfection.”
“Then you walked away.”
