Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
CALLIE
My body still aches from my night with Knox.
It’s almost like I can still feel him, but even that delightful sensation isn’t enough to lighten my mood.
The coffee is bitter against my tongue as I stare down at the rental contract spread across Mom’s kitchen table.
The numbers blur together—first month’s rent, the security deposit.
Anxiety flutters in my chest with each line I read, every clause making dread pool inside of me.
That’s almost everything I’ve managed to save since I’ve been back.
Tips have been plentiful, but there are still balances on both my credit cards.
The pen hovers over the signature line, my hand trembling slightly.
I’m twenty-eight years old, I can’t live with my parents forever.
I don’t know why I’m hesitating, but something gnaws at my gut, a familiar instinct that’s saved me more times than I can count.
The same feeling I had right before I walked into Theo’s gallery opening and saw my stolen paintings hanging on those pristine white walls.
Something isn’t right, and I’m thinking three men are the reason I can’t bring myself to sign the rental agreement.
We haven’t discussed me moving in, but a year-long lease is too much.
We’re dating. We’re happy. Eventually, we’ll move in together, and this commitment would essentially send the message that I don’t want to.
And god, do I want to. I’ve never wanted anything more than to be with the guys permanently.
Three sharp pings slice through the morning quiet as my phone erupts with notifications. The pen slips from my fingers, clattering onto the table.
MARISSA
Saw this article about you, babe. So awful! What are you up to these days? Still painting?
My stomach drops as I click the link she sent. The headline screams across my phone screen in bold, unforgiving letters: Local Artist Exposes Former Assistant’s Elaborate Theft Scheme.
Former assistant? The words taste like poison in my mouth. I was never his goddamn assistant. We were dating. I had my own job, but they make it sound like he gave me everything.
The second message hits like a sledgehammer to the ribs.
DIANA
Callie, I am so disappointed in you. I never would have expected this from someone I called a friend. How could you steal from Theo like that? He trusted you. We all did. Theo is a good man.
The lump in my throat grows until I can barely swallow.
Diana and Marissa were supposed to be my friends.
We were never close like I am with Lily and Aspen, but we hung out all the time.
Drank together. Shopped together. But they were Theo’s friends first. Every single person I met knew him before me. I was simply an interloper.
My hands shake as I open the third message, from a number I don’t recognize.
UNKNOWN
You still look so pretty first thing in the morning, Callie. That little house of your mom’s has such big windows.
The phone slips from my numb fingers, crashing onto the kitchen table. I shoot upright, chair scraping against the floor, heart thrashing like a trapped bird.
I sprint to the front porch, ripping the door open, bare feet slapping against the worn wooden boards as I come to a stop at the stairs.
I scan the tree line, searching for movement, for a reflection of a camera lens, for any sign that someone’s watching.
The morning is warm, but a chill sinks into my bones.
A sick certainty that Theo is out there somewhere. His name burns in my chest like acid.
The road is empty, peaceful. The neighbor waters her petunias next door, completely oblivious to my panic. A cardinal chirps from the old oak tree Dad planted when I was born. Nothing is out of place, but my skin crawls, neck prickling with awareness of someone watching me.
Gut roiling with paranoia and anxiety, I force myself back inside, snatching my phone from the table with trembling fingers.
The unknown number sent a link. I hesitate before clicking it.
What if it’s a scam? But the other message was too personal to be a scammer.
That’s wishful thinking. This is Theo or someone he hired.
The article loads slowly, each paragraph a fresh knife in my back.
Sources close to rising star Theodore Martin reveal a disturbing pattern of manipulation and theft by his former companion, Callie Mae Harrison. The small-town bartender allegedly seduced the talented artist before systematically stealing his work and attempting to pass it off as her own.
My vision blurs. There’s a photo of me behind the bar at Velvet, the place I worked at in NYC.
I’m pouring liquor straight from a bottle into the owner’s mouth because he asked me to, but the picture makes me look wild, reckless.
Exactly the kind of girl who’d steal from a nice, talented boy from Connecticut.
Another picture shows me standing behind Theo as he paints, my hand on his shoulder. The caption reads: Harrison often positioned herself as Martin’s muse and collaborator, but sources say she was really studying his techniques to later replicate them.
Muse. I want to throw the phone across the room. I was never his muse. I was the one creating while he took credit, the one bleeding onto canvases while he schmoozed with gallery owners and collectors.
The article paints me as everything I hate. A desperate small-town girl who saw opportunity and grabbed it with greedy hands. A fraud. A fake. Someone so pathetic she had to steal talent because she had none of her own. The comments are worse, and one of them drains the oxygen from my lungs.
This chick has a history of being a horrible human. Check out this video.
Bile rises in my throat. I don’t even have to click it to know what it is.
My hands are shaking so violently I can barely hold the phone.
I screenshot everything. The article, the threatening text, Marissa and Diana’s disappointed messages.
My lawyer will want to see all of this when I meet him this afternoon.
Breathe, I tell myself, but the air is too thin.
I can’t get enough. My lungs ache, like I’m drowning in slow motion.
My phone beeps again, and terror shoots through my chest like electricity.
But it’s just my alarm. I need to leave for the school in ten minutes.
How am I supposed to teach these kids with this hanging over my head?
Who do I think I am? Teaching art to kids who still believe in magic, who see possibility in every blank canvas while I’m here, branded as an art thief.
When news of this gets around Big Ridge—
Stop. I can’t think about that. These people know me.
They’ve seen my art for years. They’ll know Theo is lying.
But what if they all take his side? A vicious voice hisses in the back of my mind.
Theo can charm dirt. Who’s to say he won’t convince everyone I know that I’m a liar?
Shaking my head, I block out that voice, the thoughts, the paranoia.
The only thing I can worry about today is teaching the kids.
I grab my bag, my hands still trembling as I stuff my supplies inside. The rental contract sits abandoned on the table, unsigned. Maybe my instincts were right. Maybe I’m not ready to leave this house. It’s safe.
Dread settles in my stomach like a stone as I head for the door. How long before someone in town sees that article? How long before the parents start asking questions about the art teacher with a criminal reputation?
One day at a time, I whisper to myself, but the words feel as fragile as spun glass.
I pull into the elementary school parking lot, my hands still trembling.
The lot’s nearly empty except for a few teacher cars scattered around, their metallic surfaces gleaming under the morning sun.
I grab my bag and force myself to walk toward the building instead of peeling out of here like my instincts are screaming at me to do.
Normally walking through the halls brings me comfort, today though, my stomach is threatening to revolt and my palms are clammy. I head straight for the art room, eyes burning with unshed tears I refuse to let fall.
Not here. Not now.
I drop my bag on the desk and the weight of the world drops on me.
What am I going to do? No. I can’t think about that.
Gaze blurry, throat tight, I begin laying out supplies for today’s lesson with shaking hands.
Construction paper, crayons, glue sticks.
Simple things for simple minds. Unlike my complicated, fucked-up excuse for a life. How did everything go so wrong?
There’s acid in my veins. A chill walking down my spine, and a vicious voice whispering that perhaps this is what I deserve for leaving everyone behind. The tears that I’ve been trying to hold back slowly slide down my cheeks.
Goddammit. I swipe at them, searching for a place to hide.
The door to the supply closet hangs open.
I duck inside, trying to steady myself. Counting my breaths.
Bracing myself against the shelves lined with plastic paint bottles.
My chest feels like it’s cracking open, each breath shorter than the last despite trying to control them.
I grasp the metal shelves, knuckles protesting, and force air into my lungs.
A knock echoes from the classroom door.
“Callie?”
My heart rate spikes. No. Brax can’t be here. He can’t witness the complete and utter fucking disaster that I am. I take a ragged breath. “I’ll be right out.” My voice cracks. Shit.
“Are you okay?” Concern laces his words as his footsteps get closer.
Cursing under my breath, I clean my face with my shirt, hating how hot it suddenly is. The walls close in around me. The tears sting, demanding I let them fall, but I force them back. I can’t let Brax see me like this.
He appears in the doorway, taking me in. Trembling shoulders. Panting breaths. My face is probably covered in red splotches.
“What happened?” he demands, features hardening and he looks around, as if looking for whatever hurt me.
“Nothing.”
He squints at me, seeing through my bullshit. “Don’t lie to me, Callie.”
I release a shaky exhale. No. I’m not a liar.
I’m not a fake, but what good is that knowledge when the whole world thinks otherwise?
This is what Theo wanted. To beat me down.
To make me nothing. To destroy me for leaving him.
“What happened,” I begin, hating how weak I sound.
“Is that I’m a joke. My whole life, my art.
” I choke on the words, throat raw from holding back sobs.
“It’s worthless. I’m fucking worthless, Brax. ”
Something dark flashes across his features. “Don’t you ever say that again.” The vehemence in his voice makes me recoil. “You’re not worthless, Callie. Your art isn’t worthless. Who the hell made you think that?”
Shaking my head, I say, “You don’t understand—”
“Then tell me.” He steps closer, his presence filling the small space. “Help me understand.”
I hesitate, my secrets like broken glass in my throat. I should keep this to myself, bury it deep so no one can know the truth. That I’m weak. But something about the way he’s looking at me like I matter, like I’m worth fighting for, breaks open the dam I’ve built around my pain.
The words gush out of me. I tell him about Theo, about the years of manipulation disguised as love.
How he isolated me from my friends, my dreams, myself.
How he stole my art and passed it off as his own at that gallery opening while I stood there like an idiot, watching my soul displayed on walls with his name attached.
The lawsuit. The articles that painted me as a bitter ex trying to destroy a rising star’s career.
Then I tell him about the text.
The quiet surrounding Brax takes a dangerous edge, like if I step closer, it might cut me. He stares at me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. The silence stretches between us like a taut wire. One wrong move and the world could detonate around us.
“Say something.” My voice trembles like autumn leaves in the wind.
“Is he in town?”
My eyebrows pinch together. “What?”
“Theo. Is he in town?” Each word drops from his lips like a stone, violence flashing in his eyes like lightning.
“I don’t know.” That’s the worst part of all. Theo could be anywhere.
Brax must see my turmoil because the angry lines soften, and before I can give in to the weight that’s threatening to make my knees collapse, he’s there. Holding me up. Arms wrapped around me. Strong. Protective.
“You’re not alone, Callie.” His voice rumbles against my ear. “We’ll fight him together. That bastard won’t get away with what he did to you.”
Grasping at the material of his shirt, I rest my forehead on his chest, sagging against him as I cry.
Real, ugly tears. Part of me expected this to be the thing that drove him and his brothers away.
I should have known better. This is Brax, he may be my lover now, but before all that, he was one of my best friends.
Has Theo truly fucked me up so badly I forgot what unconditional love looks like?
I hug him, breathing in his familiar scent, sniffing as the tears begin to slow. Small voices ricochet down the hall, and I pull back, pinching my eyes shut and willing the moisture to stop. I have to get a hold of myself. Brax bats away the last of my tears with his thumbs.
“Look at me.”
I do.
“I love you, Callie. My brothers love you. No one gets to fuck with you and get away with it.”
The simple declaration warms my soul. No one I knew in NYC knows me like they do. All my new friends turned on me. Doubted me. But my guys? They’re with me forever.
“I don’t know what to do,” I admit.
He shrugs. “First, we tell my brothers and then we make a plan. Theo won’t get away with this.”
He sounds so certain. I wish I had as much faith but this is a story that’s been told before. Small town versus big city. Money versus family. In the end, we all know who usually wins. I won’t go down without a fight, though, and with the guys by my side, maybe everything won’t go down in flames.