It doesn’t take longfor the tabloids to run with the story. It must be a record. Less than a week and Owen’s face is plastered everywhere—front pages, gossip blogs, trending hashtags. And always the same photo: him looking earnest and hopeful, like some kind of reformed heartthrob, while the back of my head stares in his direction.
He’s lying in that picture.
Shelley slaps the third magazine down on her desk with a loudthwackand leans back in her chair, arms crossed. “It’s bad.”
I clench my jaw and say nothing. Told her it would be. Warned her the second I saw paparazzi. But right now, I’m not thinking about Shelley or the press. I’m thinking aboutthem. The guys.Primal Pulse.
It’s been total radio silence.
Not one message. Not one cryptic emoji from Jake. Not even a snarky meme from Todd. And I’ve been too much of a coward to reach out first. It’s not like we were officially anything. Not like I had a claim. Still, my chest aches every time my phone buzzes and it’snotone of them.
“But we can use this,” Shelley says, like she’s brainstorming for an ad copy. “Fan the flames. Give the media a narrative. Are you really withPrimal Pulse? Or have you made up with Owen? Love triangle, second chances—it’s juicy.”
“No.” The word slips out automatically.
She pauses, blinking. “No?”
Like she hasn’t heard that word in years.
“No,” I repeat, firmer this time. “I’m not using them like that.”
Shelley sighs and tosses her pen onto the desk. “You’re notusinganyone, Ash. This is business. Publicity. You’re not out here breaking hearts—you’re building a brand.”
I shake my head, throat tight. “They’re not props, Shelley. I know you think this is all smoke and mirrors, but they’re real people. And I already broke their hearts once. I’m not doing it again for the sake of a headline.”
She studies me like I’m speaking another language.
And maybe I am.
Shelley studies me for a beat longer, lips pursed like she’s trying to decide if it’s worth arguing. Finally, she exhales and pushes up from her chair.
“We’ll table it for now,” she says, smoothing her blazer like it’s some kind of armor. “But the guys are here. Makeovers. Studio. Let’s go.”
I freeze.
Here?
Already?
My pulse stutters, a low thrum behind my ribs that feels suspiciously like panic. Or dread. Or maybe something worse—something with hope tangled inside it. I stand slowly, smoothing my skirt, even though there’s no wrinkle to be found.
“They’re downstairs?” My voice comes out steadier than I expected, but I can’t stop the way my fingers twitch at my sides.
Shelley nods, already halfway to the door. “Yeah. Crew’s setting up now. Let’s not keep them waiting.”
Easy for her to say.
She’s not the one who left four boys and watched them turn into men from a distance—watched them becomestarswhile pretending it didn’t stillhurt.She’s not the one who kissed West in the dark after too many drinks or the one who still dreams about Xayden’s laugh, or the one who knows exactly how Jake smells when he’s freshly showered. She’s not the one who said goodbye and meant it—only to have every part of her body betray her the second they walked back into her life.
I follow Shelley into the hallway, heels clicking on the polished floor, nerves buzzing under my skin like static. The elevator ride is too fast and too slow all at once, and by the time the doors slide open to the studio level, my stomach is a knot of tension.
They’re here.
And I have no idea what I’m going to say to them.
Or what they’ll say to me.
The studio is quieter than usual when we reach it, the buzz of activity replaced by something heavier, more reflective. The lights are dimmed, the mood subdued. Even Shelley, who usually commands the room with brisk efficiency, seems softer as we enter the space.
