Chapter Twenty-Six Sunny
I used to think heartbreak was private.
That it lived in quiet corners of rooms and in the silence between breaths. No one ever told me it could happen in front of strangers—cameras flashing questions screaming while you try not to fall apart.
I don’t even make it six steps from the penthouse door before someone screams my name.
“Sunny! Look up!”
“Are you a liar? A gold-digger?”
“Did he finally get tired of the act?”
Microphones press toward me like they want to swallow me whole.
I try to cover my face—hands trembling—but my fingerprints aren’t strong enough to protect me.
Then I hear it:
“Was the sex worth losing your career?”
It hits like a physical blow—and something inside me cracks.
A sob escapes—loud, uncontained. I didn’t mean for the world to hear me break.
But they do.
And they love it.
Someone is streaming. I hear their phone—“TikTok LIVE — Sunny Emerson CRIES — WATCH!”
I want to run.
But I can’t. Because I’m tired of running.
So instead—
I straighten.
Breath shaking voice shredded eyes burning
—but I straighten.
The crowd quiets just enough for my words to cut through.
“You want a story?” I choke. “Here. Have the truth.”
Hundreds of eyes pin me in place. A reporter shoves a mic toward me.
I speak anyway.
“I loved someone who broke me,” I say. “Not Dylan. Him.”
Trevor’s name feels poisonous on my tongue.
“He convinced me I was nothing. That I wasn’t worth choosing. And I believed him. For years.”
A murmur moves through the crowd.
“I came to New York to heal. I didn’t expect anyone to care about me. Or to love me. And when someone did—”My voice cracks again. "I didn’t know how to love him back without destroying myself.”
I swallow hard.
“Dylan Knight didn’t ruin my life. He found me when I already thought I had no life left.”
Silence falls.
Real silence.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand.
“I’m not perfect. I’m not a headline. I’m just a woman trying to remember who she is. And maybe the worst part is—”I look at the cameras.“—I’m still in love with someone I may have to walk away from.”
A gasp ripples through the crowd.
That’s when I realize:
I just said it publicly. Out loud. Into the world.
And it can’t be undone.
Phones lower—only for hands to lift again, typing furiously.
Notifications ping on my lock screen faster than blinking.
#LetSunnyTeachAgain
#ProtectWomenNotMonsters
#DylanAndSunny
But then—another hashtag appears.
#SheLied
And my stomach sinks.
Because even when you tell the truth—someone will always call it a lie.
My knees weaken. Someone reaches for my arm—not vicious not a reporter—a teacher I barely know.
“Come inside,” she whispers. “You’re shaking.”
I let her guide me into the empty school lobby—a place that once felt like sanctuary.
The bulletin board is still decorated with finger-paint art. My students’ names still spelled in rainbow letters.
My chest aches.
This was my world. This was my purpose.
And now I stand here like a ghost of myself.
My phone buzzes.
A text.
At first I think—Dylan.
But no.
Unknown number.
I open it.
A photo appears—grainy zoomed in, taken from a distance
Me. Outside the penthouse. Surrounded by reporters. Crying.
A message follows:
“If you care about him — don’t show up at his office tomorrow.” “Last warning.”
My blood freezes.
Not fear. Recognition.
Trevor.
I don’t just feel watched.
I am watched.
And tomorrow—
someone intends to finish what they started.