“I’m not hungry,” I reply automatically.
“That’s bullshit too,” he says, echoing his earlier tone from last night. He walks over, flips open the cloche, revealing eggs and toast that have gone lukewarm. “You can’t go into PR like this. They’ll see right through you.”
I don’t move. My stomach churns.
Because I’m not thinking about PR. I’m thinking about the fact that I was supposed to be meeting Rafe’s parents this morning and I don’t even have the address and he won’t answer his phone and I have no idea if he told them.
I could call Miles,I think wildly.Or Drew. Or Eli. Someone. I could show up anyway. I could fix this.
Marco’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “Have you been on socials at all this morning?” he asks.
I blink. “No.”
He hesitates. That’s the first warning, as Marco doesn’t hesitate. He’s not a hesitant person. He’s blunt, direct, the kind of guy who will tell you your jumper is off and your attitude is worse.
The hesitation makes something cold crawl up my spine. “What,” I say slowly, “are you not saying?”
Marco’s eyes flick away. He looks suddenly uncertain, like he’s debating whether he’s about to throw a grenade into my already-burning life. “Maybe I shouldn’t,” he says.
My pulse spikes. “Marco.”
He exhales hard, frustrated. “Ollie, you’re not going to like it.”
“The fight?” I ask quickly. “Is it worse? Did they—did they get photos? Video? Did they?—”
“No,” he says immediately. “Not like that.”
Relief hits so hard my shoulders sag.
Then Marco adds, quieter, “It’s not about the fight.”
My blood goes cold. “It’s about… what, then?” I manage.
He watches my face, like he’s gauging whether I’m going to fall apart. “It’s about Rafe.”
The room tilts. My heart stutters once, then slams hard. “What?” I whisper.
Marco doesn’t answer. He just nods toward my phone, the gesture small but unmistakable.
My hands go numb as I pick it up. I don’t even think, just open the browser and typeRafe Ortizinto the search bar.
Results flood the screen. It’s immediate, like the internet was waiting for me to look.
Headlines. Thumbnails. Comment counts.
My vision narrows.
The first story is a photo of Rafe in a crowded club, lights smeared into neon behind him. He’s laughing, head tipped back, one arm slung around someone’s shoulders. He looks flushed. Reckless. Alive in a way that makes my stomach twist.
I scroll.
Another photo. Rafe closer to the camera, eyes glassy, grin too wide. Women around him. Hands on his arms. A face near his neck.
Jealousy flares so fast it’s almost disorienting, hot and ugly. Then the rational part of me kicks in, brutally.
He wouldn’t. Not him. Not even after last night.
He wouldn’t cheat. He’s never given me a reason to doubt him. He’s the one who stays. The one who holds. The one who fights for us even when I make it hard.
