I frowned, wiping my hands on the hem of the shirt, picking it up. Twenty notifications, maybe more—texts from Naomi, the foundation board, numbers I didn’t even recognize. My pulse tripped before I opened a single one.
Then I saw the headline.
STORM STAR STEALS TEAMMATE’S GIRL — FOUNDATION DIRECTOR AT CENTER OF TEAM SCANDAL.
I froze.
The words blurred, then sharpened again as I scrolled. Pictures filled the screen—Beckett and me at the gala, swept up in the heated kiss, his jacket draped over my shoulders, his palm steady at my back. Flash after flash after flash.
It looked damning.
My throat tightened. How did they find us?
The phone slipped from my hand onto the counter. The sound echoed too loud in the silence.
Was this why he left?
Was this what his meeting was about?
He must’ve seen it first. Maybe someone from the team called. Maybe Cam. He’d left to protect me before the story could break over my head.
My chest hurt thinking about it—him seeing those pictures, realizing what they’d twisted us into. What they’d turned me into.
I reached for the phone again, hands shaking, scrolling through the flood of messages. Naomi’s name blinked near the top:
Don’t freak out.
Too late.
The screen kept lighting up with new calls and alerts. I pressed my palm flat against the counter, forcing myself to breathe.
The apartment still smelled faintly of his cologne, sharp and grounding. The same scent that had clung to my skin last night when he’d kissed me like I was something worth breaking rules for.
Now, because of one headline, one set of photos, he’d be painted as the reckless one again—the story everyone loved to twist.
I was just the proof they needed.
“You left to protect me. I just hope you’re not paying for it now.”
The phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.
It skittered across the counter like it was alive—lighting up with messages I didn’t want to see, headlines I already knew would gut me.
I flipped it face down. The silence that followed was worse.
If I stay here, I’ll drown.
The thought landed with the kind of clarity that didn’t feel like panic anymore—it felt like survival. Sitting here in Beckett’s apartment, surrounded by his things, his scent, his absence, I could already feel the walls closing in.
The mug from last night still sat on the counter, a half ring of coffee dried at the bottom. The hoodie he’d left draped over the chair was gone, but I could still picture it—like a ghost of comfort I didn’t deserve.
I needed to move. To do something.
I walked to the bedroom and grabbed my clothes from where I’d left them neatly folded on the dresser. The motion felt mechanical, rehearsed. I pulled on black trousers, a cream blouse, then slipped into my blazer—my version of armor. I tied my hair back tightly, the elastic snapping once before it held.
By the time I looked in the mirror, the woman staring back at me didn’t look wrecked. She looked composed. Manageable. A performance of control I’d perfected long before last night.
My phone buzzed again.
