Chapter 53
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
SOPHIE
There’s something indecently glorious about sleeping in on your day off.
I’m sprawled like a starfish in my duvet cocoon, drooling on my pillow, phone tossed somewhere under the bed because I decided last night I was above being a screen-addicted gremlin.
I’ve made it, fully offline, domestically blissful, safe in the gentle hangover of a long lie-in and a cup of builder’s tea brewing in the kitchen.
It’s Mia.
And she’s holding her phone as if it’s radioactive.
“Morning…” I say cautiously, still in my pyjamas and last night’s smudged eyeliner. “You look like you’ve either murdered someone or you’re about to.”
She doesn’t answer right away, just brushes past me into the flat as though she’s been rehearsing this moment since dawn. That’s the first sign that something’s off. Mia’s never pushy. Not unless it’s an emergency.
The second sign is the way she holds her phone out to me, screen facing up.
“Have you seen this?”
It takes a second for my sleepy eyes to focus.
And then I do.
It’s Murphy. In a tux. At the gala. Looking like sin in dress shoes. And next to him, practically glued to his side, is her.
Tabloid Girl. The one he once said was “just noise.”
She’s leaning in, whispering something into his ear, hand curled around his bicep as though she’s measuring it for purchase.
In another photo, she’s laughing at something he’s said.
In the last, they’re framed against the glittering lights of the gala, her body language screaming intimacy while he gazes somewhere out of frame, expression unreadable.
The headline reads:
“Star Player Back On The Market? Samuel Murphy Spotted Getting Cozy With Notorious Reporter.”
I blink.
Then blink again.
But the pictures don’t change.
“Wait, what is this?” My voice sounds far away. “This isn’t real. This is just some weird out-of-context thing, right? Like she posed and he didn’t notice, or…”
“There are five different photo sets,” Mia says gently. “And some video clips on Instagram stories. They’re trending on the hockey fan forums. I thought you should see it before… you saw it.”
I laugh.
Not a real laugh, a brittle, too-high thing that gets stuck in my throat. “Right. Because nothing says ‘funny misunderstanding’ like some journo mounting your boyfriend in front of a skyline.”
“Soph,”
“No, no. I’m fine.” I drop onto the couch as if someone’s unplugged me. “Seriously. This is fine. This is normal. This is what I get for dating a guy with cheekbones sharp enough to cut loyalty in half.”
Mia perches beside me. Quiet. Watching me carefully, as though I’m a bomb with a wobbly timer.
Inside, the spiral has already started.
Not rage. Not yet.
Just this slow, thick feeling in my chest like I’ve been submerged in honey. Like everything is suddenly happening through glass. My thoughts start to scatter.
Maybe she kissed him and he didn’t pull away fast enough.
Maybe he had to be polite because of the press.
Maybe I’ve been kidding myself this whole time, thinking someone like Murphy, gorgeous, popular, emotionally available enough to let me in, could actually stay interested in someone like me.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. “I’ve been such an idiot.”
“You haven’t,” Mia says instantly. “This…this isn’t your fault.”
“No, but I let it happen.” I clutch the blanket on my lap as if it can anchor me. “I let him in. I let myself believe it wasn’t just another short-term fling. That he meant it when he said he wanted more. I even bought sexy lingerie, Mia. Lingerie! Me! Like some tragic Pinterest girlfriend.”
Mia’s mouth twitches. “You did not.”
“I did. It had lace. And straps. It was engineered. Like, structurally.”
Her hand curls gently over mine. “You didn’t deserve this. None of it.”
And that’s when the spiral speeds up.
Because what if this is just who I am? The girl men fall for until someone shinier walks in. The funny one, the sexy-for-now one, the girl they think is different and exciting until it turns out I’m not as cool or laid-back or unattached as they wanted me to be.
What if I’m always the side act and never the main event?
My chest tightens. I can feel tears prickling, and I try not to let them fall. God, do I try. But one escapes, carving a path down my cheek before I can even register it.
“I feel so stupid,” I whisper.
“You’re not stupid. You’re in love.”
I let that sit in the room like smoke. It curls around the furniture, bitter and sharp.
Because I am. Or at least, I was.
And now?
Now I’m not sure if I even know who Murphy is when he’s not with me. Was he just saying all the right things? Did he ever mean any of them? Did I imagine the softness in his voice when he called me his girl, or the way he looked at me as if I was gravity itself?
The worst part is, I still want to believe in us.
Even now, heart cracked and pride bleeding out, I want him to text me.
To explain. To say it’s all wrong, that she was clinging to him and he was too polite or cornered or tipsy to push her off.
That he didn’t ask her to come. That it wasn’t what it looked like.
But the photos…
God, the photos.
They don’t lie. Not with the way she’s leaning into him like she owns him. Not with the way his mouth is curved in something that could almost be a smile.
Another wave crashes over me. Hot, ugly.
“I’m such a mug,” I croak. “Like, full-on tragic heroine. All I’m missing is rain on a windowpane and a bottle of wine to cry into.”
“I brought pastries,” Mia offers, reaching into her bag. “No wine, but I’ve got a croissant the size of your emotional damage.”
Somehow, that almost makes me laugh. Almost. I take the pastry. Because what else can I do?
My phone buzzes on the coffee table and I stare at it as if it’s about to explode. “What if it’s him?” I whisper.
Mia doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. I swipe to unlock it. It’s a message from Murphy.
Just one word.
“Sophie”
No punctuation. No explanation. Just my name.
And it breaks me.
Because for the first time, I don’t know what it means. Doesn’t sound like an apology. Doesn’t sound like regret. It sounds as though he’s trying to remind me who I am.
And right now? I don’t even know that anymore.
I clutch the blanket tighter around me, some threadbare shield against the full-body ache building in my chest. Mia says something soft and comforting, but it doesn’t land. My brain has left the chat.
Because suddenly, it hits me like a freight train.
“We’re supposed to be moving in together next month,” I say, voice flat, like I’ve just remembered I left the oven on.
Mia stills. I feel her eyes on me.
I blink at nothing. “Not in a ‘what if’ way. Not in a ‘maybe one day’ hypothetical, Pinterest board sort of way. In a literal, real-life, lease-signed, flat-deposit-paid, I’ve-already-ordered-the-bloody-throw-pillows kind of way.”
My voice rises, cracking on the edges now. “I bought coasters, Mia. Coasters. For us. Because he drinks his stupid protein shakes and leaves rings on furniture and I thought it was cute. I thought that was something I could live with. That I wanted to live with.”
I stand up without meaning to, pacing now because sitting still feels dangerous. Like I’ll disintegrate if I stop moving.
“We made plans. We talked about how we’d split the bills and who gets control of the Spotify queue and how he’d do mornings because I’m a goblin until ten. We joked about getting a bloody joint account for toilet paper and takeaway.”
My throat tightens. “And I was genuinely excited. Like a bloody idiot. I cleared out half my wardrobe for him. I picked a paint colour for the living room that matches his stupid eyes.”
That’s when I crack.
The tears come hot and sudden, streaming down my cheeks as the dam bursts. “I thought this was it. I thought he was it.”
Mia is beside me in an instant, arms around me before I can collapse.
I let her hold me, sobbing into her shoulder, clutching her like she’s the only solid thing in a world that’s just crumbled beneath my feet.