Chapter 20
HALLIE
The beach house was exactly as I remembered. Worn, weathered, and achingly familiar.
Home.
I stood in the doorway, my bag at my feet, and let the memories wash over me. The faint smell of salt air and old wood. The creak of the floorboards under my weight. The way the afternoon light filtered through the windows that were older than I was and in desperate need of being upgraded.
After spending time on Colt’s yacht and then that hotel, I could see the age. The disrepair. The outdated appliances and furniture.
But that was okay because I was going to fix all of it.
I left my bag and moved through the rooms slowly, running my fingers along surfaces I’d touched a thousand times before.
The kitchen counter where my mom used to roll out pie dough.
The windowsill in the hallway where I’d carved my initials when I was eight.
The back porch where Dad had installed a screen door himself, proud as could be even though it hung slightly crooked.
Everything was exactly where it should be, frozen in time like a museum of my childhood.
I ended up in the garage. My stomach always did a weird flip when I stepped into the garage. There were warring thoughts. My memories that were all good versus what my mother had told me when she had found him.
It was almost fitting his last minutes were filled with him doing what he loved most. Where he’d spent countless hours tinkering with his motorcycle, fixing broken things, building new ones.
His tools still hung on the pegboard, organized with a precision that had always amused me.
Dad had been chaotic in most areas of his life, but his garage was sacred.
I touched the workbench and felt the familiar ache in my chest. Three years since he’d died. Three years since Mom had found him here, collapsed on this very floor, iced tea spilling from the glass in his hand.
I still missed him every single day.
“Hey, Dad,” I whispered to the empty room. “I’m back.”
The house didn’t answer, but I felt his presence anyway. In the tools he’d used. In the half-finished projects still scattered around. I could still smell Old Spice that somehow lingered even after all this time.
I thought about the last summer we’d spent here together. I’d been twenty-three, fresh out of cosmetology school, excited about my new job at the salon. Dad had been so proud, telling anyone who would listen that his daughter was going to make people beautiful for a living.
“That’s important work, Janie,” he’d said. “Making people feel good about themselves. Never underestimate that.”
We’d spent that whole week working on the house together. He’d wanted to repaint the shutters, repair the porch railing, maybe finally fix the leak in the bathroom. We’d gotten about halfway through the shutters before getting distracted by a bike ride into town for ice cream.
We never did finish those shutters.
Now they hung, half-blue and half-peeling white, a monument to unfinished plans and time that ran out too soon.
“I’m going to fix it all,” I told the empty workshop. “The shutters, the porch, the plumbing. Everything. I’m going to make this place beautiful again. Just like you always wanted.”
The house had heat, thank God. The furnace was old and temperamental, but it worked well enough to keep the chill at bay. Still, I couldn’t resist building a fire in the living room fireplace the way Dad had taught me.
I crumpled newspaper and arranged kindling the way he’d shown me a hundred times. Small pieces first, building up to larger logs. Leave room for air to circulate. Don’t pack it too tight.
“Fire needs to breathe, Janie,” I could hear him saying. “Just like people.”
I struck a match and held it to the newspaper, watching the flames catch and spread. Within minutes, I had a respectable fire crackling, filling the room with warmth and the comforting smell of burning wood.
There was always something so comforting about a fire. It didn’t matter if there was a violent storm raging outside or if you were having a shitty day in general, a fire made it all better.
I settled onto the old couch. The springs were shot, and the fabric was faded, but it was still the most comfortable seat in the house. I wasn’t sure I wanted to get new furniture. I kind of liked the old stuff.
But it was ugly.
I pulled out my phone. I should probably read a book, disconnect for a while, do exactly what I had told Colt I was going to do.
But first, I needed to download something to read. It felt like I had not had the time to read a book in forever. I couldn’t wait to see what smut I could find. Something naughty and juicy.
I opened the app, scrolling through recommendations. Something light and escapist sounded perfect. Maybe a romance where everything worked out in the end.
My phone buzzed with a text from Hallie.
Hallie: Girl. You need to see this.
There was a link attached.
Hallie: Call me when you see these. Just call me.
My stomach sank. I clicked the first link.
It was a gossip blog, one of those sites that lived for celebrity drama and society news. The headline made my breath catch.
“Who is Hallie Bellrose? Everything We Know About the Woman Who Tamed Colt Jesson”
Below the headline was a photo from the dock. Me and Colt, the ring on my pinky finger and his arm around my waist. We looked happy. In love.
We looked like liars.
I scrolled down, my heart pounding.
Hallie Bellrose has captured the heart of Manhattan’s most notorious bachelor, and the world wants to know: who is she?
Unlike Colt’s previous conquests—models, actresses, and socialites—Hallie comes from humbler beginnings.
A hairdresser by trade, she worked at a small salon in Brooklyn until recently.
Friends describe her as “down to earth” and “genuine,” a stark contrast to the billionaire playboy she’s set to marry.
But Hallie’s life hasn’t been without tragedy. She lost her father, Robert Bellrose, three years ago to a sudden stroke. Friends say she’s never quite recovered from the loss, often speaking about restoring her family’s beach house in the Hamptons as a way to honor his memory.
My hands started shaking as I continued to read my own biography. It was so weird to be reading about myself. Who were these friends they talked to? It wasn’t Hallie or April. I knew that.
So who?
Or were they just making it up? No, it was too specific.
An only child, Hallie grew up in a middle-class family. Her mother worked as an elementary school teacher, her father as a mechanic. Those close to the family describe Robert as a devoted father who doted on his daughter.
I felt sick.
I clicked the second link. A different site, same invasive coverage.
“Plain Hallie No More: How an Average Girl Became a Billionaire’s Bride”
Plain Hallie. That was a little rude.
I threw my phone onto the couch cushion beside me, my hands shaking with rage.
Plain Hallie.
I grabbed my phone again and scrolled through more articles. They were everywhere. Dozens of them, all speculating about who I was and why Colt had chosen me after dating women that were far prettier with blue blood.
Some were kind, painting me as a Cinderella story. Regular girl makes good, finds love with a prince.
Others were cruel, questioning what Colt saw in me, posting unflattering photos from my salon’s website, comparing me to his exes and finding me lacking in every way.
The comments were worse.
She’s pretty for a bigger girl, I guess.
He must really love her to overlook the weight difference.
Good for him, dating someone realistic for once.
I give it six months before he’s back to his old ways.
I felt small. Insignificant. Like every insecurity I’d ever had about my body, my looks, and my worth was being validated by strangers on the internet.
But underneath the hurt and humiliation, anger began to simmer. This had to be worth it. All of it. I’d signed up for this knowing it would be hard. Knowing I’d be putting myself out there for the world to judge.
But if I did all of this, endured all of this, and Colt didn’t fall for me? Then what was the point?
The money alone wasn’t enough anymore. Not when my father’s memory was being used for clicks and ad revenue. I needed Colt to fall. I needed him to feel what I’d felt all those years ago.
I had to try harder. Be smarter. Make him want me so badly that when I walked away in July, it would destroy him.
Take his money. Break his heart. Get even.
The mantra felt more urgent. I stood up and moved to the window, looking out at the beach. The ocean was gray and choppy. The same beach where I’d cried until I had no tears left.
“I’m going to make this right, Dad,” I said aloud, my breath fogging the glass. “I’m going to restore this house. Make it everything you dreamed it could be. Bring it back to life.”
I could picture it so clearly. Fresh paint on the shutters, a cheerful blue that would stand out against the weathered gray siding.
New porch railings painted a pretty white.
The roof repaired, the plumbing fixed, the whole place brought back from the edge of decay.
I would hang white sheer curtains over the windows and paint the inside robin egg blue.
And maybe by next winter, I’d move here myself. Leave the city behind. Find a job at one of those fancy salons in town where rich socialites went to get their hair done. Build a new life in the place where I felt closest to my father.
Away from Colt. Away from the performance. Away from the woman I had become because of him. Someone who lied for a living and plotted revenge against a man who didn’t even remember hurting her.
The fire crackled behind me. I turned back to look at the room. Shabby and worn, yes. But full of love. Full of memories.
Full of possibility.
I didn’t need a big, fancy yacht to be happy. I didn’t need expensive furnishings. I just needed comfortable. Solid. Real.
I picked up my phone again and opened my banking app. The first payment from Colt had cleared. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars sat in my account just waiting to be spent.
That was more than enough to make the improvements to the house. And then some.
I was going to see it through to the end, no matter what it cost me.
Even if looking at articles calling me “plain Hallie” made me want to crawl into bed and never come out.
My phone rang with Hallie’s name flashing across the screen.
“Hey.” I was going for breezy but the second the word was out, I knew I failed.
“Hallie.” Hallie’s voice was full of concern. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have sent those links. I just thought you should know what people were saying.”
“It’s fine,” I said, even though it wasn’t fine at all. “I needed to see it eventually.”
“Some of those articles are so mean,” she said. “The ‘Plain Hallie’ one especially. I wanted to throw my phone across the room when I read that.”
I appreciated her anger on my behalf, but it didn’t make the words hurt any less. “Yeah, well. That’s what I signed up for, right? Public scrutiny comes with the territory.”
“That doesn’t make it okay.” I could hear the fierce protectiveness in her tone. “You’re gorgeous, and anyone who says otherwise is blind. Or jealous. Probably both.”
A small smile tugged at my lips despite everything. “Thanks.”
“I mean it. Colt is lucky to have you, fake engagement or not.” She paused. “How are you doing? Really?”
I looked around the beach house, at the fire crackling in the fireplace and the familiar worn furniture. “I’m okay. I just needed to get away for a bit. Clear my head.”
“I don’t blame you. This whole thing is intense.”
“That’s an understatement.” I moved back to the couch and curled up in the corner. “I’m not going to read any more articles. I can’t. It’s too much.”
“Good call,” Hallie agreed immediately. “Ignore all that noise. Focus on what matters, getting your money and fixing up the beach house.”
“Yeah.”
“Listen,” Hallie said gently. “Enjoy your quiet time. Don’t think about Colt or the wedding or any of it. Just be there with your dad’s memory and let yourself breathe.”
“I will,” I promised.
“And if you need anything, you call me. I’ll drive out there in a heartbeat.”
“I know. Thank you.”
“Love you, babe. Take care of yourself.”
“Love you too.”
I hung up and set the phone facedown on the coffee table. No more checking articles. No more reading comments. No more letting strangers’ opinions burrow under my skin.
I grabbed the blanket from the back of the couch and wrapped it around myself, staring into the fire.
“I love you, Dad,” I whispered. “I’m going to make you proud.”
The fire popped and crackled, and somewhere in the sound, I could almost hear his voice.
I’m already proud, Janie. I always was.
I closed my eyes and let the warmth wash over me.
I was going to be okay.