34. Jules
CHAPTER 34
Jules
“You are not going to believe this,” Taylor says, practically diving onto my bed like she’s announcing the apocalypse. Or a sale on Jimmy Choos.
I groan and pull the covers tighter over my head. Whatever it is, I don’t want to know. Not today.
It’s been a week since I slipped away, leaving nothing but my wedding ring behind. No goodbye, no explanation. And since then?
Nothing.
Not a single word. No text, no call, not even a damn smoke signal. Not even a whisper of regret.
I guess I shouldn’t be shocked—fool me twice and all, but damn if it doesn’t burn.
If I had an ounce of sense—or a shred of courage—I would’ve faced him. Looked him dead in his infuriatingly handsome, smug face and said, “No, you’re not doing this to me again.”
You don’t get to wreck me twice .
But part of me feels like it’s already done. Like there’s not enough left to piece myself back together.
While you’re laughing it up with your family, mister, I’m here, shattered, dreading how I’m supposed to break the news to mine. “Yeah, Mom, Dad, Halmeoni—turns out it didn’t work out with Mr. Asshole of the Century. Guess I didn’t learn the first time when he tore my world apart.”
And the kicker? He never lied. Not once. He said it right to my face—the more I hate him, the better this works. Quick wedding. Quicker divorce.
But the real gut punch? I hate that I fell for him. Again. I wanted him. Wanted more.
And God, I hate how disappointed I am. Because somewhere, buried deep in the most vulnerable part of my heart, I actually thought he’d come after me.
Ha! Fat chance.
He told me from the start. Temporary. Torture. And damn it, he delivered. In spades.
He also promised, “Till death do us part.”
Shut up, Jules.
And now bubbly Taylor’s bouncing on the bed beside me, all sunshine and pep, promising that a little sunlight and fresh air will fix everything.
Will it?
I’m pretty sure that’s the same horseshit they sold Dracula.
Taylor might be my best friend, but she’s probably gearing up to tell me she’s following her latest “future husband” to Scotland. Or Dubai.
And honestly? After a week of trying—and failing—to piece my heart back together, I can’t be bothered to care .
Taylor rips the comforter off my head. “Don’t make me steamroll you,” she growls, then, without warning, flings herself on top of me like some overzealous pro wrestler, rolling back and forth until laughter I didn’t ask for bursts out of me.
“Ugh,” I manage between begrudging giggles. “I give, I give.”
She releases me, victorious, as I sit up, clutching a pillow for dear life. Then, Taylor launches a full-blown assault on my hair, yanking through the tangles like a dance mom on competition day. Efficient, relentless, and completely merciless.
Her eyes catch on the shirt—worn, soft, roughly six sizes too big, with a faded Army logo that somehow still carries Brian’s scent.
“Where’d you get that?”
“Amazon,” I lie.
“Well,” she plops down next to me, beaming, “your account is blowing up like the Eiffel Tower on New Year’s Eve,” she says, buzzing with excitement.
“What? Why?”
“Someone found the watch!” she squeals, clapping.
“That’s incredible.” I mean, yes, I care that the idiot gets his watch back. This isn’t about us. It’s about family. “So, they’re getting it to him?”
“Slow your jelly roll. This is where social media ends and public relations kicks in.”
“Public relations?” I frown.
She hits me with a deadpan stare. “You. You’re public relations. You’re still Sydney Sun on Instagram, and you need to make sure this person isn’t a total weirdo before you go telling Brian where he can find his precious watch. Also, babe, it’s two in the afternoon. Time to get up and rejoin society.”
After a skin-scalding shower and a shave that finally rids my legs of their Yeti-level hibernation, I grab my phone and dive into my real obsession: investigating.
The beauty of being a writer with time to kill and a laser-sharp focus? I can snoop the hell out of anything or anyone like a free-lancer on a caffeine bender.
First, I pull up the source.
An Instagram account with the handle @BigDogCoach57—because, obviously, big dogs need a life coach, right? His feed is flooded with shots of him, two retrievers, and enough little-league action to make you wonder if he’s running for team dad of the year.
It’s all suburban and harmless. But when I open the images he sent, something clicks. And for the first time in days, a real smile stretches across my face.
We didn’t share every detail for a reason. The second a billionaire dangles a reward, every opportunist with a Wi-Fi connection comes crawling out of the woodwork.
Taylor, the social media queen she is, picked through the chaos like a kid fishing peas out of Sunday dinner, equal parts focused and fed up. And I have to hand it to her, when it comes to weeding out the crazies, the woman is a human spam filter in heels.
The pictures of the watch are a goldmine, all the proof I need. The face is chipped, cratered like the moon, and the strap shows the wear and tear of more than one deployment. But it’s the inscription on the back that cinches it: Our path may change as life goes on, but our bond is ever strong.
That watch is Brian’s. No doubt about it.
I’m buzzing with so much excitement that my fingers slip, fumbling with my phone as I accidentally hit the video call option—because, of course, me and social media? Not exactly besties.
A kid’s face flashes across the screen. He’s maybe ten or eleven, with a messy mop of dark hair and wide, innocent brown eyes that seem to light up the entire call.
He’s wearing a battered baseball cap, tilted just enough to make it cool, and a jersey that’s been through one too many games, hanging on by pure determination.
“Uh, hi,” he says, a little awkward, fiddling with the brim of his cap. “Are you...Sydney Sun?”
“That’s me. What’s your name?”
“Max.”
So few people know I’m Sydney Sun, and the fact that this kid does sends a strange flutter through my chest. I can feel a grin lifting sky high—wide and goofy. Must. Fight. Smile.
I’m just about to ask for his dad when it hits me—he knows my name. Then it clicks. “Wait, you’re the one who sent the photos.”
He bites his lip, glancing over his shoulder like he’s about to spill state secrets. “So, uh...I saw that Brian guy on TikTok. And I found his watch.”
My pulse skips. “Where?”
“The dugout.”
“The dugout?” I repeat, a little thrown. From my little league days, I know the only things left in a dugout are sunflower seeds, gum, and spit.
“Okay, fine.” He groans. “I found it in my sister’s backpack. She’ll kill me if she finds out.” He runs a finger across his throat for emphasis.
I smirk, leaning in like we’re partners in crime. “Our little secret.” I pretend to lock my lips and toss the key, sealing the deal with a wink. “How old’s your sister?”
He rolls his eyes, exasperated. “Ancient. Like, nineteen.”
I bite back a laugh. “Brutal.”
He blows out a breath. “That Brian guy said there’s a reward.”
“There is.” I lean in closer, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “A big one.”
“Good. We kinda need new uniforms,” he says, full of hope.
A voice shouts in the background, “And bats!”
I raise an eyebrow, half-expecting his entire little league team to spill out from wherever they’re hiding. I imagine half the dugout crammed out of sight behind the screen.
He brightens, his face lighting up with possibilities. “Yeah, and bats.” He gives a casual shrug, testing the waters. “Maybe he could throw in a few gloves, too. And I promise I’ll take good care of the watch ‘til he picks it up.”
I can’t stop the grin pulling at my lips, my heart softening as I watch him, this little negotiator, completely clueless that Brian would probably hand him the keys to his dream sports car in exchange for that watch.
He hesitates, then asks, “Where does he live? I’m not allowed to ride my bike past Elmwood.”
“Tell you what, Max. Make a list of everything your team needs, and I’ll make sure that Brian guy delivers—and picks up the watch.”
A burst of excited cheers erupts from behind the screen, and I laugh so hard my body shakes, the weight on my chest lifting just a little.
It’s been a while since I’ve felt this—something light, something good. It’s like a shot of hope straight into my veins.
This whole situation is practically begging to be a story.
A Sydney Sun story.
When the call ends, I feel...different. A little less worn down, a little more determined, and yeah, maybe a little terrified. But I know what I have to do.
I need to reach out to him. Tell him about his watch.
And that from here on out, in my mind, Mr. Brian Gabriel Bishop will forever be known as that Brian guy.
The guy who will always hold my heart.
Even if he never knows.