Then my phone buzzed on the counter.
I didn’t think much of it—probably some dumb notification or an update from Evelyn. I reached for it absently… and froze.
The lock screen was flooded. Mentions. News alerts. Texts from numbers I didn’t recognize. I opened one.
And then another.
And then everything fell apart.
There it was—me and Gary. Months ago. Someone had recorded it, low quality but unmistakable. I was shouting. He was grabbing my arm. We were outside his apartment.
The video cut off before it showed anything else, but it didn’t matter. The captions did the rest of the damage:
She never left him.
Nick’s just a rebound.
She played them both.
My stomach dropped. My breath caught. I gripped the phone tighter, heart hammering so loudly it drowned out the soft gurgle of the coffee pot behind me.
It wasn’t just a video—it was a weapon. One Gary had clearly waited to use. I knew it in my gut. He wanted to ruin me. Or maybe just ruin Nick.
Tears stung the backs of my eyes, but I didn’t let them fall. Not yet. Not when the man I loved was just down the hall, humming to himself like everything was fine. Like the outside world wasn’t sharpening its knives again.
My phone chimed.
I glanced down—and froze. Gary’s name lit up the screen like a warning flare. For a heartbeat, I just stared, dread creeping in slow and sharp.
Then I opened the message.
You really thought you’d win? Let’s see how loyal your new boy is when the whole world thinks you were cheating.
My breath caught. My fingers hovered over the screen, trembling as another message came in.
I told you no one would believe you.
Enjoy the spotlight.
Each word was a blow. Smug. Calculated. He knew exactly what he was doing—slipping the knife in and twisting it just enough to let me bleed without making a sound.
I could picture him now—leaning back with that crooked grin, watching the chaos he’d ignited with a drink in hand and no remorse. He’d waited for this moment. Saved that video. Timed the release. And now he was enjoying every second of it.
My pulse thundered in my ears. The walls—Nick’s penthouse that had felt like a safe haven—suddenly felt smaller. Thinner. Like they couldn’t hold back what was coming.
I paced the kitchen, gripping the phone like it might explode. The messages glared up at me, taunting. I wanted to scream. To cry. To vanish. I wanted to smash the screen and pretend none of this was happening.
But it was. And worse—Nick wasn’t just a bystander. He was part of the story now.
I glanced toward the hallway where I could still hear the faint hum of his voice as he moved around the bedroom. He had no idea what Gary had done. Not yet.
The sunlight streaming in through the window felt hollow, like a stage light catching me mid-collapse. I caught my reflection in the glass: tousled hair, Nick’s shirt hanging loose on my frame, eyes rimmed red. I looked like someone in the aftermath—like a girl who’d just stepped on a landmine and hadn’t realized the pieces were already flying.
I opened Instagram, hoping maybe—just maybe—this hadn’t blown up yet. But of course, it had. My explore page was a minefield of headlines and clips, a carousel of speculation and smug commentary.
“Kennedy Hathaway: NHL’s Latest Distraction?”
“Rebound or Real Deal?”
