CHAPTER 15. STORM #7
When I finally stop coughing, Selena repeats the question—then tacks on my name, as if she’s calling on a student.
“What does that mean?” I ask, still trying to clear my throat. “Like…in general?”
“With each other, obviously,” she says, every word a jab.
“No,” I say firmly. “The answer is no.”
It’s only partly a lie. Technically, we haven’t had sex—at least not the kind people usually mean.
So I’m not exactly lying. But the words still feel wrong.
Like what happened between us didn’t matter.
Like it was nothing. And even though I know Xavier doesn’t want journalists poking around in our private life either, I still feel awful.
Like I’ve just thrown what we have under the bus just to make things easier for myself.
“Mr. Ormond?” Selena asks, turning to him.
“No,” he says, his voice flat.
He doesn’t explain. Doesn’t look at me. And somehow, that makes it worse.
“Alright, last question,” she says, all breezy again. “Reverse ‘Fuck, marry, kill’. Pick one for each other.”
I snort. “Are you writing for Shorewitch Teen now? What kind of question is that?”
“That one’s from the fans,” Selena says, all wide-eyed innocence. “What? Too much for you, Mr. Doherty?”
“No,” I say, a little warily, already picturing the headlines. “Fine. Marry.”
“That’s cute,” she smirks. “And you, Mr. Ormond?”
“I don’t care,” Xavier says with a shrug. “Either’s fine.”
My face goes hot at that—at the implication—but I keep my expression neutral.
“You have to choose one,” Selena presses.
“Fine,” Xavier sighs. “Marry, then.”
“Adorable,” Selena beams—then clicks off the recorder, and the smile drops from her face like a curtain falling.
“We’re done,” she says, finishing her tea. “Thank you, gentlemen.”
“We’ve kept our promise. Now it’s your turn,” Xavier says.
“Of course,” she nods. “As I told Mr. Doherty, the tracker came by mail.”
“You said there was a letter,” I remind her.
“There was,” Selena nods. “I was offered money to follow you. To write a piece about your relationship.”
“How much?” I ask, frowning, a chill starting to rise up my spine.
“Not much,” she says with a shrug. “But enough to make me say yes.”
“Who sent it?” Xavier asks.
She lifts her shoulders. “No idea. It was anonymous.”
“And now?” he says. “Are you being paid for this, too?”
“No,” she says. “The story took on a life of its own. My editor wants more pieces about you two, but I’m not getting anything extra for it.”
We both go quiet, trying to process what this actually means.
“I didn’t do it just for the money,” Selena says, like she’s trying to salvage some sense of journalistic integrity.
“I realized this wasn’t just a smear campaign.
” She looks at both of us, pointed. “Believe what you want, but I’m a good journalist. I know a real story when I see one.
” She smirks. “And the tension between you two is off the charts, so don’t bother pretending.
I’m just giving the fans what they want—and getting paid for it. Win-win.”
I grit my teeth. “Right, who cares if we’re actual people,” I say, the sarcasm thick in my voice.
“It’s nothing personal,” she says with a shrug.
Before I get a chance to respond, Xavier cuts in. “Get to the point,” he says, fixing her with a hard stare. “What else do you know about the sender?”
Selena shrugs. “Well, I know I wasn’t the only journalist he approached.”
“Yeah,” I say, exhaling sharply. “We figured as much. Anything else?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “I have a guess about who sent it. But saying it out loud might not be…ethical.”
“Who is it?” I press. “We had a deal.”
“I told you what I know,” Selena says, raising her hands like she’s innocent. “No tricks. I also have a suspicion—but if I’m wrong, that could get me in trouble.”
“We won’t tell anyone,” I say, trying not to sound desperate but failing.
She hesitates, dragging it out. “I did manage to trace where the letter was sent from, even though it was anonymous.”
“So?” I snap, my irritation slipping through.
That’s when I feel Xavier’s hand find the small of my back—light, grounding. I glance at him, but he’s focused on Selena, his expression unreadable. Still, his hand stays where it is. And I let it.
“It was dropped off at a downtown post office by a delivery boy,” Selena says. “He was paid to do it. Said some guy gave it to him. I don’t know who, but I do know where he works.”
Xavier leans in, his voice low. “Where?”
“I’ll tell you,” she says, that smug smile creeping back in—like she’s enjoying having the upper hand. “But there’s a condition.”
I let out a sharp breath. “Knew it. Five questions were never going to be enough.”
“I can leave, if you’re not interested,” Selena says, with mock offense.
“What’s the condition?” Xavier asks, tense now, focused.
“No conditions,” I cut in before she can answer, turning to him. “We gave her the interview. She should hold up her end.”
“It’s fine, gentlemen,” Selena says, rising and grabbing her bag. “I think I’ll just go.”
“Wait,” Xavier says, getting up too. “What’s the condition?”
She looks at me then—waiting, like she wants me to be the one to say yes. I bite back my frustration and shrug. Fine. Let her have it.
“You need to kiss,” she says, completely straight-faced.
It takes me a second to process it. Then I let out a short, incredulous laugh.
“Kiss?” I don’t even have to ask who she means. Of course she means Xavier and me.
“Yeah. On the lips,” Selena says, still blank like it’s the most normal request in the world.
“What, does that get you off?” I snap. “Is this some kind of kink for you?”
“Mr. Doherty—” she starts, but I don’t let her finish. I stand.
“Let’s go, Xavier,” I say, already heading for the door.
When he doesn’t follow, I glance back—he’s still rooted in place, frowning at Selena, his expression impossible to read.
“Xavier,” I say again.
He meets my eyes and gives a quick nod. I open the door and step into the hallway. It’s not until I’m a few steps in that I realize he hasn’t followed.
I spin around and grab the handle. Twist it—nothing. It won’t turn. Someone’s holding it from the other side.
I press my ear to the door. I can hear Xavier saying something, but the wood’s too thick and the music outside is too loud to catch any of it. I feel a sense of desperation rising in my chest as I’m trying to understand at least something.
“Is everything alright?”
I turn to see the waitress a few steps away, watching me with a puzzled look.
“Yeah,” I say quickly. “We’re leaving. Can I pay now?”
“Of course,” she says with a nod. “I’ll get the check.”
As soon as the waitress leaves, I turn back to the door and try the handle again—just as it swings open. Selena stands there, hand still on the handle, clearly enjoying herself. Xavier’s a step behind her, flushed, gaze distant.
For a second—stupid, irrational—I wonder if he kissed her. The thought flares up fast, hot, and I push it down just as quick. It doesn’t make sense. He wouldn’t. Still, the sting lingers.
Xavier doesn’t say a word. He barely glances at me before brushing past and walking down the corridor. I start to follow, but Selena catches me by the elbow.
“If you’re interested,” she says, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction, “the man who gave the kid the tracker was sent from The Chronicle.”
I blink, thrown. “The Chronicle?” For a second, I’m not even sure I heard her right. “You mean the newspaper?”
Selena nods.
But I’m already pulling my hand free and heading after Xavier, heart pounding, mind spinning.
Fred.
It has to be Fred.
That son of a bitch.
I rush through the rooms toward the exit—no sign of Xavier anywhere. As I pass through the main hall and push the door open, the cold air hits my face like a slap. I take a breath, trying to steady myself, to think through what any of this could possibly mean.
Then I see him.
Xavier’s a few feet away, arms folded across his chest, deep in thought. Frowning.
“Xavier,” I call out as I catch up to him.
He turns, and the shift in him is immediate. There’s a distance in his eyes that wasn’t there earlier—like a wall’s gone up. His jaw is tight. His whole posture closed off.
Whatever I meant to say slips right out of my mind. “Are you okay?” I ask, that creeping dread crawling up the back of my neck.
Xavier nods, watching me in silence.
“You were right,” I say. “It’s Fred. But why would he do this? He acted like he didn’t know you—like he had no idea the agency even existed, and—”
Suddenly, Xavier turns on his heel and walks off.
I freeze, thrown for a second, then hurry after him, the sense of déjà vu hitting hard.
“Xavier,” I call. “Where are you going?”
I catch him by the shoulder, and he turns to face me. His expression is tight with anger, but there’s something else underneath it—something I can’t quite read.
“Is this about what I said at the interview?” I ask, a cold weight settling in my chest.
“No,” Xavier says.
I frown. “Then what is it? Is this about Selena? What did she make you do for the information?”
“Nothing I regret,” Xavier says, a flicker of defiance in his face.
“I hope she didn’t kiss you,” I say with a snort, trying to cut the tension. But Xavier doesn’t so much as blink. His expression stays cold. When it becomes clear he’s not going to answer, I ask, “Why are you like this?”
“Like what?” he mutters, jaw tight.
“Like you hate me or something.” I try to keep my voice level, but the sting slips through. I don’t want to admit how much the emotional back-and-forth is wearing me down.
Xavier blinks, and for a second, there’s something in his eyes—something that almost looks like regret. But it’s gone before I can be sure.
“I don’t hate you,” he says. “I’m just not feeling well.”
“Oh. Okay,” I murmur, already regretting pushing. “Come on—let’s go home. We’ll deal with Fred later.”
But then Xavier says, “You go home. I need to be alone.”
“Alright,” I say, completely thrown, my eyes stinging with whatever this feeling is—and hating myself for it. Panic starts to rise, along with the urge to ask where he’s going, when he’ll be back, and what I did to make him act like this.
Before I can say anything else, the pub door swings open, and the waitress pokes her head out. “Hey, you didn’t pay for the coffee!”
“Money’s on the table,” Xavier says, voice flat. He gives me one last unreadable look—then turns and walks off.
I just stand there, watching him go, the disappointment settling hard in my chest.