Chapter 9 #3
My throat tightens. The air feels suddenly too thin, like I’ve been caught naked in a room full of strangers. If I drop the smile, if I let him see the ache underneath, there’s no taking it back. No pretending I’m untouchable. The terrifying part is that a small, traitorous piece of me wants that.
It’s too dangerous.
“I don’t even know you.”
“Yet,” he says. “When you’re ready, I can be a safe space for you. You can breathe with me.”
That undoes me more than anything else he could’ve said. It’s not a line. Nor is it a flirtation. It’s an offering–one that doesn’t ask anything of me.
You can breathe with me.
I try swallowing around the lump rising in my throat, and remind myself it’s not about my past anymore. It’s about what that ending did to me. I internalized it. After what happened, I started shrinking, sanding off edges, making myself harder to love, and easier to leave.
Now, I’m sitting next to someone who’s offering safety in moments where I least expect it. I want to lean into it. If only for a second. Long enough to experience what it feels like to be wanted and not used. To be understood.
But I don’t. I can’t. Never again.
A shaky breath leaves my lungs, and I pray to whatever deity is in charge of emotional boundaries that Soren Pembry never figures out how close he is to breaking me open.
“I appreciate the offer. It’s not the smiling that hurts, though,” I whisper, even as the truth pulls loose, stitch by stitch. “It’s the recklessness of this whole thing.”
His brows merge. He breathes a laugh. “I’ve been reckless since before this fake dating thing even started.”
“You must be tired.” The words come out shaky.
Soren nods, thoughtful. “I am.”
A beat of silence.
“What about you?” He runs a hand through his hair before laying it across the back of the bench. “You wear any masks, Bells?”
My shoulders tense. I’ve worn them all. The good girl. The dutiful daughter. The rising author who smiles for the fans, signs every book with a perfectly rehearsed flourish, and laughs off the questions that hit too close to home.
I’ve painted on cheer when I’ve felt like splintering.
Pressed on concealer over sleepless nights.
Bottled up heartbreak, fear, doubt–then pretended I’d never tasted any of it.
Because if I cracked, even a little, everything underneath would come spilling out.
And once it did, I wasn’t sure there’d be anything left worth saving.
“A few.”
More silence.
Soren laces his fingers together, his gaze drifting across the courtyard at the twinkling lights strung overhead, voices in the distance, and the hum of forced festivity pressing in from every direction.
I don’t say anything.
Neither does he.
Camille is off to the side, scrolling through her phone, while Renata chats with a journalist who attended the press conference earlier. She’s using her ‘I’m totally relaxed’ fake laugh.
Fisher’s nowhere to be found—probably retreated the second he sensed real feelings were on the horizon.
It’s just me and Soren. Close, but not touching. Quiet, but not disconnected.
You don’t have to smile if it hurts.
Could Soren be a safe space? He offered it so freely. What if we actually became friends?
No. No, that would never happen. There’s too much bad blood between us.
“Where’s that assistant of yours—Fisher? He seems loyal.”
I let out a breath that’s more of an exhale, thankful for the topic shift. “He is. Adopted me at my first signing when nobody came to my table. Talked a bunch of people into buying books because he believed in me. We’ve been stuck together ever since.”
Soren’s gaze lingers with an intensity that makes me readjust. I’m not uncomfortable, exactly. More like… exposed. Which is new. And terrifying. Somehow, he’s yanking out a version of me I’m not used to showing.
Wrapping my fingers around the edge of my scarf, I twist the ends into knots I don’t intend to untangle. “What about you? Is Camille your ride or die, or something more?”
Soren huffs out a sound that’s not quite a laugh. “Camille definitely has my best interests at heart… at least the financial ones.” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes sliding over to our managers before returning to me. “I pay her to manage me, Bells. Not fuck me.”
“Right,” I blurt, instantly wishing I’d just nodded and moved on after I told him mine and Fisher’s story. “I didn’t mean—just, you know, like… who’s really in your corner? Friends, family—someone else?”
The second the question is out, I hear the careful curiosity in it. I sound like a woman fishing for information she has no business wanting. Like the kind of girl who refreshes social media to see who he’s been tagged with.
My fingers pick at an invisible crumb on my jeans, because apparently I can’t handle eye contact or basic conversation.
Soren’s jaw works. His fingers curl tighter around his knees, the rhythm of his thumb halting mid-tap. His back goes straighter. I know this reaction. I’ve touched on something he’s spent a long time trying to bury. But what?
“Matthew,” he finally says. “My agent. Well, he’s more than that.
He’s been with me from the start. One of the few people who saw through the noise and told me to write what scared me.
Not what sold.” There’s such reverence in his answer—a truth he doesn’t hand out often.
“M’s the reason I didn’t quit after my first book deal.
Or the second. Or when everything went sideways after a disastrous film option.
One of those Hollywood fever dreams that promised a big-screen blockbuster and ended up as a half-written script, a lawsuit, and six months of my inbox filled with nothing but tabloid gossip and refund requests.
He’s part mentor, part therapist, and part whiskey-fueled life coach. ”
That last part earns a small smile from me, and from him, too. This tug of recognition hits me. There’s a thread tying me and Soren together. Different lives, different people, but the same kind of loyalty holding us both up.
“Matthew sounds amazing. I have a similar friend. Her name is Emily.”
“Maybe I can meet her someday.”
“Slow it down, Pembry.” I smile. “We’ve only had one fake date.”
Soren smiles back. “Well, any friend of yours is someone worth knowing.”
He reaches over to pluck a loose thread from the sleeve of my coat. I’m surprised by the casualness of it. Soren doesn’t even seem to register the gesture.
After, he picks up his drink, drains the cider, and shoots the cup into the nearest trash can. “You know, you’re not what I expected, Bells.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. More... glitter? You’ve got this whole sunshine-and-sweaters aesthetic, but underneath, you’re kinda terrifying.”
My face scrunches. “Um, thanks? I think.”
Soren grins. “It’s a compliment.”
The warmth of his words settles deep inside my chest. “I’m mad about that kiss,” I firmly say. “You didn’t give me a fair warning.”
“Sorry, not sorry.” Heat simmers beneath the humor. “If it’s any consolation, I’ve been thinking about it ever since.”
I blush. “I... It was unexpected.”
His smile curves, satisfied. “Not always a bad thing.”
“Still should’ve warned me.”
“Next time, I’ll give you a ten-second countdown.”
I’m smiling—dammit—and he sees it. His mouth opens as if he wants to say more, but he must decide against it, and he closes it instead.
What was he about to say? Was it weighted than banter? Something that could crack open whatever fragile truce we’ve built? Hopefully, it wasn’t anything that would tip us both too far into territory we can’t walk back from. Or at least from somewhere I can’t.
“You two look good together,” a couple walking by says to us.
“I think so too,” Soren replies, sitting back against the bench where our shoulders brush.
I look away.
“You got cagey all of a sudden,” he mentions.
My body tenses. Soren rises and extends his hand. Against my better judgment, I place mine in his, and the moment our palms meet, he pulls me gently into his orbit.
Suddenly, we’re not Ava Bell and Soren Pembry, enemies turned marketing experiment. We’re two people standing together in the dark, both a little broken, both trying not to let anyone see it.
And I can’t help but hate him a little less now.