CHAPTER 10. EXPOSED #2
“Alright,” I say, crossing my arms against the cold—and the sting still lingering from our fight. “You can go.”
It sounds defiant, I know—like I’m trying to get under his skin. But I honestly don’t have the energy to care.
Xavier’s jaw tightens. His lips twist into an unkind smirk.
“Right. You have plans.”
“That’s not it,” I snap, heat rising in my chest. “You didn’t even apologize. You never do.”
“Apologize for what?” he says, quietly. “For focusing on the case instead of chasing after your ex?”
Something twists in my chest the second the words leave his mouth.
“If you don’t want me to go, just say so!” My voice rises, heat rushing to my face. “Just say you’re jealous—don’t pull this passive-aggressive crap!”
Xavier’s mask slips—just for a flicker—then it’s back. His lip curls.
“Why would I be jealous?” His voice is ice. Then, after a beat: “You’re not my boyfriend. You can do whatever you want. I don’t need you.”
His eyes don’t even look like his anymore—dark, cruel, unrecognizable.
You’re not my boyfriend.
I don’t need you.
It hits like scalding water, humiliation searing down my spine. I spin on my heel and walk off without looking back.
The second I hit the street, my thoughts start to spiral. Anger and disappointment churn through me like acid. My stomach knots. I hate myself for giving him that opening. For thinking I could ever get past that facade.
To hell with it all. The investigation. Xavier. Everything.
Rage throbs at my temples, my heart pounding, a lump clawing its way up my throat.
We’ve fought plenty over the past year and a half—but it’s never felt like this. Never this personal. He’s never tried to hurt me. But just now, he wanted to. I saw it in his eyes—how he knew exactly what to say to make it sting. To humiliate me.
I want to cry, but I won’t. That would be pathetic.
“Mr. Doherty!”
I glance back.
Selena Hast—who’s been on our heels since yesterday—hurries after me, her magenta coat flashing like a damn caution sign.
“Afternoon.” She grins as she catches up.
“Can’t you leave me alone?” I snap, picking up my pace.
“Don’t be like that,” she says, matching my stride. “I come in peace.”
“I don’t care,” I mutter, not bothering to hide the edge in my voice.
“I overheard your spat with Mr. Ormond. Care to share what that was about?”
“No.” I exhale hard, forcing my temper down. “Please, just go.”
“Let’s talk.”
“I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
“Look, I came alone—call it a gesture of goodwill. Just give me two minutes.”
She smooths her hair and tucks her hands into her pockets, like she’s trying to look harmless.
“No need to be so hostile.”
I scoff. “You spread lies about me, and now you want me to cooperate?”
“There’s a lot of noise out there about you and Mr. Ormond. I’m just trying to get to the truth.”
“Yeah, I don’t trust you,” I mutter, patience thinning.
Selena smirks, like my anger amuses her.
“Maybe you should,” she says. “I’ve got something you’ll want to hear.”
“Not interested. Now please, just go.”
I try to leave her behind, but she steps in front of me, blocking my path.
“Aren’t you even curious how I knew where to find you?” she asks, still smiling.
I exhale, already tired of this back and forth. “I don’t know. Followed me from the café?”
“Not quite.”
Selena reaches into her purse, pulls out a small GPS device, and hands it to me. A red dot blinks on the screen.
I frown. “What’s this?”
“This is how I tracked you down.”
A chill creeps up my spine. “I don’t get it.”
“Neither do I,” she says, her tone turning serious. “But this thing pinpoints your location with scary accuracy.”
“Is this some kind of joke?” I narrow my eyes. “You’re invading my privacy—tracking me illegally—”
“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.”
She pulls out a cigarette and lights it. A sharp cinnamon scent hits my nose.
“This showed up in my mailbox.”
I stare at her. “What do you mean, in your mailbox?”
“Exactly that.” She shrugs. “A few days ago, I got an anonymous package with this tracker.” She nods at the device in my hands. “Give me that interview, and I’ll tell you what the note said.”
“How do I know you’re not making this up?”
“Well, someone’s got you tagged, don’t they?”
Selena watches me, unblinking, a faint smile playing on her lips.
“So what are you suggesting?”
“You meet me, answer five questions. I hand over the note.”
“Five questions?”
“That’s it.”
“Just five?”
“Uh-huh.”
I let out a humorless laugh. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch.” She shakes her head—then quickly adds, “Except Ormond needs to be there too.”
“Ah.” My lips twist. “There it is. Then no deal.”
“Why not?” Selena lifts an eyebrow.
“I don’t speak for Xavier,” I say flatly. “He makes his own calls. Goodbye.”
“How about this,” she says, not backing off. “I leave you the tracker, and you tell Ormond about my proposal. If you two decide you want to know more, we meet—and you answer my questions.”
She extends a hand. “Deal?”
I hesitate, frowning. I’m not exactly in the mood to agree to anything—but the thought of her trailing after me and Xavier catching up to us any second is worse. So I shake her hand.
“Fine,” I mutter. Not like I have anything to lose.
Selena smiles and hands me her business card. “Call me when you’re ready,” she says, tossing me a wink before heading back up the street.
I slip the card into my pocket and glance at the tracker.
The red dot blinks steadily—right next to Bolton West Street, marking my exact location.
I take the long way, weaving through backstreets before hitting the highway and ordering a cab. Soon I’m speeding toward Cottonhill Square in the city center. The light snowfall thickens, clinging to the windows, turning the gray cityscape into something out of a Christmas movie.
The cab’s heater hums, struggling to hold back the cold seeping in. I shiver—but not just from the temperature.
Xavier’s words loop in my head, a dull ache building behind my eyes.
You’re not my boyfriend. I don’t need you.
Then comes Monica’s soft, pitying voice: “…he just doesn’t seem like someone who knows how to care about people…”
I sigh. Meeting Katie is the last thing I want right now, but I’ll have to slap on a brave face and act like everything’s fine—just to get this over with.
I snap out of it when the driver asks, “Where should I drop you off?”
I glance out the window and realize we’re already passing Cottonhill Square. Traffic crawls in the next lane, brake lights glowing red through the thickening snow.
“Here’s fine, thanks.”
The cab pulls to the curb. I step out and hurry toward La Marseillaise, the Independence Monument looming behind me. The café is just around the corner, its red awnings vivid against the gray sky, the yellow lettering barely visible through the slanting snow.
I push through the glass door, shaking off the snow as I step inside.
“Welcome,” a waitress chirps, smiling at me.
I mumble a greeting, and she leads me to a table by the window. The place is packed, the air buzzing with low chatter and the clink of cutlery.
I order coffee and check the time on my phone. I’m too early—forty-five minutes to kill before Katie shows up.
I grab a discarded newspaper from the windowsill and flip it open, my mind still tangled in the fight with Xavier. It’s yesterday’s Standard, with Minister Craig’s photos plastered across a double-page spread. I sigh and scan the article.
CRAIG DENIES AFFAIR WITH MALE ADVISOR
Foreign Minister denies impropriety, blames rumors on “political noise.”
Foreign Minister William Craig announced the resignation of his advisor, 25-year-old Christopher Hill, on Monday, calling it “a necessary step to quell distraction.”
The move follows weeks of speculation after photos surfaced showing the two men together at a Shorewitch hotel—images first published by The Chronicle (Issue 23).
Craig, 49, confirmed that he and Hill had shared accommodations during campaign travel, but flatly denied any “unprofessional conduct.”
In a rare public statement on his personal life, Craig added: “My wife Fiona and I have been trying for a baby. It’s been a long road—years of effort and several miscarriages. We’ve had our share of heartbreak, but we’re solid. We’ll get through this together.”
When pressed about the nature of his relationship with Hill, Craig described the rumors as “baseless gossip designed to distract from real policy.”
However, critics remain skeptical. The opposition has called for a formal inquiry into Hill’s appointment, while anonymous sources within the party describe the resignation as “damage control.”
The Chronicle’s editorial board has stood by its coverage, stating that “the public has a right to transparency where taxpayer funds and potential conflicts of interest are concerned.”
Meanwhile, Christopher Hill has declined to comment.
I sigh again, flipping through the rest of the paper.
Why does everything have to circle back to sex?
Sure, the minister and his advisor are public figures—and if they really were involved, it could raise questions about professionalism, maybe even nepotism.
But instead of tackling that, the press has been dragging their private lives through the mud for weeks, just to prove whether they’re sleeping together. That’s the part that feels dirty.
A pang of sympathy twists in my chest. Rumors like these don’t just stain reputations—they can wreck lives. Poor bastards.
When the waitress brings my coffee, I thank her and dive back into the paper. Page five holds another surprise—an article titled Detectives in Love. There’s a photo of me gripping Xavier’s wrist as we leave the Shorewitch Police Station, reporters swarming around us.
A sharp pang cuts through me at the sight. God, thinking about him actually hurts.