“You bitch,” he hisses. “You set me up.”
“No,” I say evenly. “I gave you rope. You tied your own noose.”
And with that, I walk away.
My spine is steel, my pulse thunder, and in my pocket?
I’m holding the key to getting everything back.
Max. My reputation. My life.
Because the real story’s about to begin.
And this time,I’mthe one writing it.
34
MAX
Coming Home
The clouds hang low and angry, like the whole damn sky is holding its breath.
I shove my hands deeper into the pockets of my jeans and walk faster, boots hitting the concrete in a rhythm that matches the storm in my chest. Thunder growls in the distance—low, like a warning. I don’t even know where I’m going. I just needed out. Away from my apartment. Away from my thoughts.
From the silence.
I pass a hotdog stand, the scent of mustard and burnt onions turning my stomach. Someone bumps into me without apology. A cab splashes through a puddle too close to the curb. It all feels fitting—chaotic, dirty, loud. Like penance I haven’t earned.
A drop hits my cheek.
Then another.
I stop under a rusted scaffolding awning just as the skies break open, rain slamming down in sheets, drumming on metal like an angry drummer.
My phone buzzes.
I almost ignore it—I'm in no shape for another PR crisis, fan theory, or one more stab from Jake. But something in my gut tells me to look.
It’s from Vivienne.
Vivienne:You need to hear this.
There’s a voice memo attached.
The wind picks up, slicing through the back of my hoodie like a warning.
I glance around—the sidewalk’s thinning. Now’s as good a time as any.
My stomach tightens, instinct prickling beneath my skin. I tap the screen, thumb suddenly unsteady.
The voice memo plays.
Ambient noise bleeds through first—clinking glasses, distant chatter, someone laughing off-camera. Then I hearhim.
Jake Armstrong.
Slick. Smug. Cold.
