Mystery Man Identified? Internet Sleuths Hunt for Charlie Riley’s Secret Lover
That last one makes my blood pressure spike, but when I click through, it’s just speculation. Someone thinks the mystery man might be a backup dancer. Someone else is convinced it’sher bodyguard. A third theory involves a member of a boy band I’ve never heard of.
No one’s identified me. My head was ducked during the hug—chin tucked against the top of Charlie’s head, face hidden from the cameras. All the photos show is my back, my shoulders, the dark shape of someone who could be anyone.
I’m safe.
Charlie is not.
#CheaterCharlie is trending. So is #FakeBarbie and #GraysonDeservesBetter. The comments section is a dumpster fire of strangers competing to say the cruelest thing about a woman they’ve never met.
The game ends with a shrill electronic wail. Forrest and Saylor trudge back to us, their uniforms dirt-splattered but free of paint. Their smiles are triumphant. They’ve somehow clinched victory despite being down to half strength almost immediately. Forrest’s face carries the smug satisfaction of a general who’s just conquered a small nation, while Saylor’s already dissecting our failed strategy with military precision.
“If you two hadn’t abandoned your posts so quickly, we could’ve dominated them completely,” Saylor says, pulling off his mask.
Cam rubs his neck welt. “Stupid game you guys take way too seriously,” he mutters.
“All right, chump. Go put your big-boy pants on. We’ll take you out for a beer now.” Forrest ruffles Cam’s hair like a child. Cam swats him away and we all head to the locker room. The space is cramped and smells like rubber and old sweat. Cam is already lobbying for his favorite bar that he’s been grumping about all afternoon. Saylor is half listening, stripping off his gear with practiced efficiency.
I’m on my phone again, and this time my face must give something away.
“Mate.” Saylor drops onto the bench across from me. “What’s got you so twisted up? You’ve been somewhere else all day.”
I don’t answer right away. I’m reading Grayson Hayes’s official statement—a carefully crafted bit of press manipulation designed to make him look like a wounded saint. His statement reads like a PR master class: “Charlie and I request space during this difficult time. We appreciate your understanding as we navigate these personal challenges away from the public eye.”
But the ambiguity might as well be Charlie’s social death sentence. The comments are a flood of support for her apparently jilted beau.Poor Grayson. He deserves better. She never appreciated what she had.
Forrest drops onto the bench beside me with a grunt, tugging at his bootlaces. I catch him exchanging a look with Saylor—that silent bro-code communication where eyebrows do all the talking.
“I can see you two,” I mutter. “Subtlety isn’t your strong suit.”
Forrest claps a hand on my shoulder. “Sora’s locked away working on her manuscript, and I don’t get Koda back until next week. My schedule is wide open for whatever existential crisis you’re having.”
Instead of answering, I flip my phone around and hold it up.
Forrest squints at it. “The singer?”
“Yeah.
“Read the headlines.”
Forrest scans the article, then hands the phone to Saylor.
“Okay, so she cheated on that douchebag who is ruining the Marvel remakes, by the way. Cheating is hardly news in Hollywood, mate. Did you place a bet on this couple or something?” Say asks.
“She’s not cheating,” I answer flatly. “Because they’re in a fake relationship.”
Forrest lifts his brows so high they nearly disappear into his hairline, his expression shifting from confusion to concern like someone watching a friend claim they were abducted and probed by aliens. “And you care because?”
“I’m the guy in the photos. I caused this.”
“Come again?” Forrest asks.
An eavesdropping Cam stops rubbing his neck and swivels around. Saylor’s jaw drops as he zeroes in on the picture on my phone. “No way, mate. You’re way too tall to be this guy. Are you sure it’s you?”
“That’s because I’m practically folded in half. Charlie barely comes up to my shoulder.” I tap the blurry image on my screen. “But yeah, that’s me. I know becauseI was there. We weren’t—it wasn’t what they’re saying. She was upset, I gave her a hug, that’s it.”
“How did you end up in Charlie Riley’s penthouse?” Cam asks accusingly.
