Chapter 36
Thirty-Six
AVA
I’m in Port Townsend. Curled up on Emily’s oversized armchair in her cottage-style rental, buried under a throw blanket that smells of sea salt and peppermint tea, trying not to unravel like one of the fraying seams on this damn afghan.
Outside, the Washington wind lashes the windows. Pretty sure it’s got some vendetta against me.
Inside, I’m warm in body but not in spirit. I got here with no money. No phone. No ID. No plan.
I borrowed someone’s phone and called Emily. Told her everything through sobs and adrenaline.
Emily—who is terrifyingly competent even when she’s microwaving soup—made things happen.
Apparently, a friend of hers, Rorie, lives in Port Townsend. Rorie then sent two of her friends—Jeremy and Maya—to drive me across the entire fucking country to drop me off.
That’s real friendship.
That’s also slightly certifiable.
The road trip was unforgettable, and a tad terrifying. Jeremy played only early 2000s boy bands and insisted on narrating all of his love life regrets through dramatic hand gestures and Taco Bell metaphors.
Maya made us stop at nearly every roadside convenience store we passed, and if she saw a magazine with Asher Cross on the cover, she’d snatch all the copies, shred them like confetti, toss a hundred-dollar bill at the stunned cashier, and storm out in a blaze of righteous fury.
I chose not to ask.
Days later, I made it.
I’m here.
Emily’s house is quiet, filled with the smell of lemon candles and overachieving academia.
She’s currently at her desk, toggling between her day job—some medical journal on neurodivergence and maternal inheritance—and a fantastical erotica manuscript with a main character who may or may not be hooking up with a morally ambiguous pirate-fae hybrid.
Soren got her number from Fisher and texted her a couple of nights ago. I made her lie. I hate myself for that. But I’m not ready. I know he probably hates me too—for what I’ve done, and what I’ve put him through. And leaving like I did, he’ll never forgive me.
Everything is my fault. Soren agreed to a stupid PR stunt to help me.
Me. He didn’t need the hype or the numbers.
He was the numbers. He had the credibility, the career, the loyal fandom.
And now, because of my desperation, my need to make this work, his career is caught up in the shit show.
What was supposed to be a bump. A push. Became a demolition.
I’m mad at myself for ever signing on to do it. For dragging him down. And for falling for him so fast, and hard, and so completely that I forgot to protect either of us from my curse.
Emily keeps reminding me that if I hadn’t agreed to the fake dating scheme, I never would’ve been with Soren. She’s right. That doesn’t make this pain any less cutting.
A log shifts in the fireplace. I flinch.
Emily glances over from her dual monitors, chewing the end of a pencil. “Uh, Ava? You might want to come see this.”
Groaning, I drag myself from my cocoon. “If that’s another of your DM’s from that dude named FeralFucker, I’m not emotionally equipped.”
She snorts but stands, motioning me toward her chair. Her screen is split.
On the left: a private chat thread with someone named BrandDom4U. And the profile pic is a man, neck down, wearing a black power suit, crisp white dress shirt, black tie, and what is very clearly a riding crop in his hand.
I don’t ask. I’ve learned.
On the right monitor is Soren.
My breath catches. He’s standing on the cliff where we danced. Bundled in a camel-colored coat, hair whipping in the wind, eyes locked on the screen, staring straight at the camera. Straight at me
A livestream.
ShelfSpace.
Over fifty thousand people are watching. And counting.
Emily nudges the volume up. I sit. Frozen. Heart in my throat.
Soren’s there. I’m here.
He’s talking.
To them.
To me.