“I engineered them,” he brags, and I stand up straight, blood freezing mid-flow. “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 confirms their worst instincts. Especially when the guy’s already halfway convinced he’s being played.”
I stop breathing.
“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.”
Jake’s voice drips with pride—and something crueler.
My knees nearly give. The city noise fades. I’m not standing in Manhattan anymore—I’m back in that moment I sent her away, convinced she’d played me. Betrayed me.
I was wrong.
I was so fucking wrong.
Thunder crashes, there’s lighting somewhere in the distance and it’s the perfect representation for my feelings.
Nora didn’t lie. And I—I tore us apart.
And then—Nora’s voice.
Not shaken. Not weak.
Steel-wrapped velvet. Calm. Controlled.
“That,” she says, “was you confessing to everything.”
I press the phone to my ear and replay the message. Once. Twice. A third time. Then I call Vivienne.
She picks up on the first ring.
“Max.” Her voice is sharper than usual. Controlled. Measured. Like she’s been waiting for this.
I swallow hard. “Is it true?” My voice is hoarse. “Everything in that recording—Jake… the posts…”
“Yes.” No hesitation. “It’s all true. Nora had nothing to do with it. Jake faked everything. The posts. The account. He even spoofed the recovery email to match her work address. I got the whole thing verified. Cyber investigators confirmed it.”
I close my eyes. “Jesus. Why didn’t she tell me sooner?”
“She didn’t know,” Vivienne says. “Not until yesterday. She found out when I called her—because I figured it out. And she was…” She exhales shakily. “Max, she was wrecked. She thought you hated her. She thought she meant nothing.”
A sharp pain twists in my chest. “She does. She meant—shemeanseverything.”
“Then why the hell did you send her away?” Now Viv’s voice shakes—not with grief, but fury. “She was trying to tell you. She was terrified and pregnant and youshut her out. You didn’t even ask. You just… assumed.”
“Iknow,” I say, my voice cracking. “I thought I was protecting myself. I didn’t want to believe it. But Jake… he timed it perfectly. He showed up right after—right before she told me she is pregnant.” I laugh bitterly. “I didn’t even question it.”
There’s a long pause. Then: “You don’t get to be the victim here, Max.”
“I know I don’t.” I press my fist to my mouth. “I fucked up.”
“Then make it right,” she says. “And Max?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t fuck it up again.”
She hangs up and I start running. I run, like I haven’t run in long time.
As I sprint down the streets, rain pelts my skin like punishment—cold, relentless—but I barely register it. My clothes are soaked through. Water streams down my face, plastering my hair to my forehead. My boots slap against the pavement, heavy and loud, matching the frantic rhythm of my heart.
