She’s all polish, designer jacket, perfect hair, the smile of someone who just won. He’s angled toward her, jaw tight, hands open like he wants to argue but already lost.
It reads intimate. Not scandal, brunch. Two beautiful people resolving their private negotiations while the world watches.
My legs move without permission. One step, then another. The crowd parts, phones rising like a forest of eyes.
“Is it true?”
Isabelle’s smile widens, delighted. “Oh,ma chérie.You tell me. You were there.”
Kieran turns. Dread floods his face, color draining. “Wren, don’t listen to her. Don’t?—”
“Everyone loves a love story,” Isabelle purrs, playing to the crowd. “Boy meets girl. Girl says no. Boy makes a bet.” She pauses, savoring it. “And then girl gives him everything. How sweet.”
Laughter scrapes. Orange-red flashes behind my eyes.
“Stop,” Kieran says, voice low and dangerous.
She doesn’t. “Come on, you can brag. You scored. You won the bet—” Her eyes rake over me. “—and now you get to collect.”
Air leaves my chest, neat as a drawer pulled shut.
“I didn’t.” His voice cracks into hard teal—the one that used to steady me. “I didn’t score anything. We didn’t—I didn’t touch her.”
The world stops.
He’s trying to protect me. Trying to make them think it didn’t work.
The voice that leaves my throat is stilted. Distant. Not mine.
“That’s not true, Kieran.”
The silence is immediate, absolute.
Every phone lifts higher. The crowd leans in, hungry.
He goes white. “Wren, don’t?—”
“That’s the thing with you,” I say clearly. “You lie so easily. Even now. Even when it doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Sweetheart, please—” He takes a step forward.
“Don’t call me that.”
My voice breaks on the last word, and I hate myself for it.
Isabelle circles closer, a shark smelling blood. “This is even better than I imagined. You really thought he was intoyou.” She turns to the crowd. “She actually believed the golden boy wanted the scholarship girl.”
Laughter ripples—ugly, delighted, feeding on itself.
“Tell her, Kieran,” Isabelle continues, dripping poison. “Tell her what you told me. How it wasn’t even a challenge?—”
“Shut your fucking mouth.” His voice is deadly.
But the damage is done. The words paint pictures I can’t unsee.
I stare at him and try to find something real in his face. Anything I can hold onto.
“When?” The word comes out broken. “When did it stop being a bet? Before you kissed me?” I can’t say the rest. Can’t name what we did in that cabin while the bet ticked toward completion.
