Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Julian- Two Weeks Later
My phone buzzed against my cheek.
I groaned. Loudly. Violently. Like a Victorian widow collapsing over a casket.
The screen glowed inches from my face, searing light into my retinas like it had a personal vendetta.
CLAUDIA J.
Get your ass down here. I mean it.
Now.
- CJ @ J&L
I stared at it like maybe, just maybe, I could die in the next thirty seconds and never have to respond.
Another buzz. Another message.
I’m not above sending someone to drag you out by your man bun.
I didn’t have a man bun. Not anymore. I’d hacked it off sometime between the second bottle of cheap hotel pinot noir and the full spiral in my Riverbend Inn bathroom. Somewhere in the fallout zone of Jude’s rejection.
God. Fucking Jude.
Even thinking his name made my stomach twist like I’d swallowed a belt and someone was pulling it tighter. I dropped the phone on the pillow and stared at the ceiling of my shoebox apartment, one arm flung dramatically over my eyes like I was a corpse in a Tennessee Williams play.
Two weeks. Two full weeks of decomposing in this bed.
I hadn’t podcasted. Hadn’t posted. Hadn’t showered. I’d ordered enough Thai delivery to qualify for diplomatic immunity in Bangkok. I was surviving off room-temperature pad see ew and emotional damage.
Because here’s the thing: no one had ever turned me down before. Not like that. Not with that stupid, soft look in his eyes. And not with hands that could’ve taken me apart and a voice that said stop.
And it wasn’t just the rejection—it was who had rejected me.
Jude Brooks. Faith healer. Possible cult leader. Hands like scripture, a smile like temptation, and a whole metaphysical philosophy I couldn’t even begin to untangle. I should’ve seen it coming, right? The spiritually enlightened are always the worst lays. Or at least, the most elusive.
But that night had cracked something in me.
I’d gone back to the Riverbend Inn in a fog, locked the door, and collapsed on the bed. Drank everything in the minibar. Cried a little. Punched a pillow, then rage-wrote a podcast script titled “False Prophets and the Losers Who Want Them” that never saw the light of day.
Then, I got in my rental car and headed back to New York.
And here I was. Two weeks later. Still not okay.
Buzz.
I swear to God, Julian. I know where you live.
That was probably true. Claudia Jameson didn’t mess around.
I sighed. Rolled out of bed. Landed on a pile of laundry with a muffled oof. The apartment looked like someone had broken in and robbed me of all dignity. The floor was a crime scene of coffee mugs, balled-up socks, and empty takeout cartons.
Dragging myself upright felt like lifting a dead body. My own.
I peeled on a black t-shirt that smelled only slightly of shame, found a pair of mostly clean jeans, and tried to remember how humans looked when they were alive.
In the mirror, I looked like a feral raccoon. My hair was tousled, eyes hollow, mouth twisted in a permanent scowl.
Claudia was going to kill me.
Or worse, ask me what happened.
And I didn’t know what I’d tell her.
That I’d traveled all the way to Riverbend to expose a snake oil preacher, and instead caught feelings? That I’d kissed the guy, tried to undress him, and got shut down like a drunk groomsman at a lesbian wedding?
That I couldn’t stop thinking about him?
No, I couldn’t tell her any of that.
I was going to have to lie.
Or spin. Or... do that thing I do on the podcast. Talk fast, deflect, sound smart enough that no one asks about the soft, pathetic underbelly twitching underneath the performance.
Because the truth?
I wasn’t just humiliated.
I was hurt.
And I hated that even more.
The reception area at Jameson & Lewis looked like a place where dreams came to die.
A vast white room with low modern furniture, everything reeked of quiet judgment and citrus air freshener.
I sat on the edge of a leather bench, chewing my thumbnail into a jagged crescent, imagining Claudia back there in her glass lair, sipping something green and bitter while plotting my slow, excruciating demise.
It had been an hour.
An hour of pointedly not looking at the receptionist, who’d given me a Botoxed smile when I walked in and hadn’t blinked since. She was now filing her nails with a focus reserved for bomb defusal or brain surgery.
This was a power play. I knew it. Claudia Jameson didn’t just make you wait, she made you stew.
Finally, the receptionist looked up, cocked her head like a suspicious parakeet, and said, “She’ll see you now.”
The door to Claudia’s office slid open like the gates of hell. I walked in, shoulders hunched, trying to project a casual confidence that was completely missing from my insides.
Claudia was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, arms crossed, looking like a dominatrix version of a Greek statue in monochrome Armani.
“Sit,” she said, without turning around.
I sat.
Silence.
More silence.
She pivoted slowly on one heel, arched an eyebrow so high it could’ve punctured the ceiling, and said, “Remind me, Julian—why did I invest money in your podcast?”
I blinked. “Uh…”
“Wrong.” She walked toward her desk like a panther who smelled blood. “Try again. Why did I give you, a walking red flag with a YouTube history that should come with a parental advisory, actual, non-theoretical money?”
“Because you believe in the power of independent journalism?” I offered weakly.
She barked out a single laugh. “No. Because you had a thing. A voice. A brand. And now? Now I have a flaccid SoundCloud account with zero uploads and an influencer who ghosted me like a sophomore after a bad Tinder date.”
My face was on fire. “I needed time to regroup.”
“I thought you had the hots for Jude Brooks,” Claudia shook her head and sighed. “The man’s very handsome. What happened? Is he straight? I thought you’d do ANYTHING for a story.”
“I tried,” I blurted. “Swear to God I tried to seduce him and…”
“You needed time to cry into your ethically sourced hotel pillow because some hot preacher didn’t let you sit on his lap?” Her voice oozed fake concern.
I opened my mouth, then closed it. She grinned like a lioness who’d just spotted the weakest gazelle.
“Ohhh,” she said, circling me. “So that’s what happened. He turned you down. You got the spiritual door slammed in your face and ran home with your halo between your legs.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Did you really try to seduce him?” She asked, deadly sweet.
“No, but…”
She stared. Fuck, she could get anything out of me.
“Yes,” I admitted. “Sort of. Maybe. I was vibing.”
“You were thirsty,” she corrected. “And now you’re embarrassed because the pretty boy in white linen didn’t want to take your not so humble offering?”
I groaned and buried my face in my hands. “This is so humiliating.”
“Yes, it is,” she agreed brightly. “And you know what the cure is? Content. You go back to your sad little studio, slap on that over-processed podcast voice, and you give me an episode. You tell your listeners that Saint Jude of Riverbend is a con man or a second coming or whatever, but you do it with flair and receipts.”
I looked up at her. “You want me to go after him?”
She shrugged. “I want you to say something. You’re not a priest, Julian. You’re a provocateur. If you can’t screw him, skewer him.”
I blinked. “That was graphic.”
Claudia winked. “This is marketing, darling. We don’t do subtle.”
Claudia moved behind her desk like she were claiming territory, then dropped into her chair and folded her hands. “You’re what, licking your wounds? Mourning a man you knew for the length of a Marvel movie? Get a grip, Julian.”
“I’m not mourning,” I snapped.
She leaned forward, her expression indulgent and cutting all at once. “Oh, honey, you’re pouting. And let me tell you—nothing tanks a personal brand like a grown man sulking over unrequited —”
“Don’t say it.”
She smiled wider. “—Devotion. What did you think would happen? That he’d drop to his knees and beg for you? That the heavens would open and a chorus would sing while you two slow danced in the mist?”
I stood up. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I think I do.” She tilted her head. “This one bruised your ego. That’s all. And now you’re spiraling instead of doing your damn job.”
My hands clenched at my sides. My heart was beating too fast, my jaw tight with something hot and sharp I couldn’t swallow down anymore.
“Doing my job?” I growled. “I went down there and did the research. Then I sat through his ridiculous rituals and visited his so-called healing center. I saw him up close. I made contact.”
Claudia raised a perfectly sculpted brow. “And then he made no contact.”
That was it.
I slammed both palms on her desk so hard her iced matcha vibrated.
“I’m going to bring him down,” I said. My voice didn’t even sound like mine—it was something deeper, guttural.
“I don’t care how pretty Jude is or how many lonely people he’s fooled.
I’m going to expose him for what he is. And then I’m going to tear off the halo and show the world the con artist underneath. ”
Claudia didn’t flinch. In fact, she grinned like she’d just won the goddamn lottery.
“There he is,” she purred. “That’s the Julian I invested in. Sharp. Ruthless. Vengeful. My favorite kind of content creator.”
“Nobody makes a fool of me,” I muttered and hurried toward the door.
“Oh, and Julian?” she called after me.
I turned back, scowling.
“If you do manage to get him into bed…” She smiled, all teeth. “That’s part of the story. I want details. Sensual and spiritual.”
I stormed out before I said something I couldn’t take back. Her assistant gave me a nervous glance as I passed, but I didn’t slow down. I marched out of the building, into the heat and filth of Midtown, my fists clenched and my brain on fire.
So Jude wanted to play the holy man?
Fine.
Let’s see how divine he looks when I strip away the spiritual smoke and mirrors and get to the truth. But underneath all my righteous fury, one question kept rising like smoke I couldn’t wave away:
What the hell is it about Jude Brooks that’s still got me this twisted?