He sees me before I’m ready.
“Well, well,” he says, lips curling around the rim of his glass. “Storm & Silence’s librarian mascot.”
I school my expression into something soft. Open. Vulnerable. “I was hoping we could talk.”
He chuckles, a sharp-edged sound that makes my skin crawl. “Let me guess. Max isn’t returning your calls, and you’re starting to panic?”
I force a small, anxious laugh. “I just want to understand. Something’s changed. He won’t tell me why.”
Jake drains the rest of his drink, sets the glass down with an exaggerated clink, and gestures for me to follow. We move to a quiet corner near the terrace wall, the city humming beneath us.
He doesn’t waste time.
“You’re being cut loose, sweetheart,” he says. “You never belonged in his world.”
My nails dig into my clutch. “I want to understand what happened.”
“Well, I suppose I can tell you,” he says, all fake camaraderie, like we’re co-conspirators. “There were some verystrategicposts on a little-known fan forum—posted under your name, of course. Someone showed them to your favorite rockstar. And who could be so clever and cruel to pull that off, you ask?” He taps a finger to his temple, mock-thinking. “Oh right. That was me.”
My throat tightens.
“Oh, don’t look so shocked,” Jake adds with a low chuckle. “It’s strictly business. Nothing personal. I actually like you. You seem sweet. Wholesome.”His gaze drags over me, slow and dismissive. “But I used what I had. Had to get back at your precious Max Donovan somehow.”
“So you faked the posts?” I whisper.
“I engineered them,” he corrects smoothly. “Mocked up a few throwback posts, gave them a timestamp makeover, linked an old fan account to your precious little library email. It’s laughably easy if you know what to fake and who to leak it to. People believe what confirmstheir worst instincts. Especially when the guy’s already halfway convinced he’s being played.”
I stare. “Youwantedhim to think I planned this?”
“Oh, I didn’t justwantit,” he says, voice low and laced with smug pride. “Imade surehe believed it. His father saw you buying that pregnancy test and reached out—apparently, he’s got his own axe to grind. The plan to fake the posts? All his idea. Who knew Lawrence Westwood had such a nasty streak? Not me. But that was my golden ticket. All I had to do was spin the story. And Max? He bought every word.”
He leans in, breath heavy with whiskey. “And now he thinks you’re just another schemer trying to trap him with a baby.”
I can barely speak. “You destroyed everything.”
He shrugs, utterly unbothered. “Maybe for you. But someone always has to suffer. You were collateral damage. Better you than me.”
I say nothing.
He mistakes my silence for defeat.
Jake straightens, brushing invisible lint from his lapel. “No one’s going to believe you, Nora. You’re a nobody. And trust me—Max isdonewith you.”
I tilt my head.
“I’m not so sure about that,” I say softly.
And then I reach into my bag, press stop on the voice memo app.
Jake freezes.
“What the hell was that?”
I let him see the screen. Red recording bar. Time stamp ticking.
“That,” I say, tucking my phone away, “was you confessing to everything.”
His face shifts—from smug to stunned to venomous.
