Chapter 31
Rosa
I pulled back, fighting the urge to wipe my cheek where Morgan's breath had touched. "Whatever you're planning, it won't work. Noah and I?—"
"Noah and you, huh?" Morgan echoed, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "Such a sweet story. The actor and the therapist. But every sweet story has a bitter aftertaste, doesn't it? And I think you're about to get a mouthful."
Across the room, Noah was laughing at something his brother Cam had said, his head thrown back, his face open and happy. The sight of him like that, unaware of the venom being spilled at this table, made my chest ache.
"I'm not going to let you ruin this," I said, turning back to Morgan, finding strength in the certainty of my words. "Whatever game you're playing, I won't play along."
She stood, smoothing her dress with one hand. "You don't have to play along. It's already in motion." She glanced at her watch, a delicate gold thing with diamonds circling the face that winked in the soft light. "In fact, I'd say the clock is ticking.”
With that, she drifted away, moving through the crowd with the ease of someone who knew exactly the effect she had on a room. I stared after her, the chocolate mousse before me suddenly looking as appetizing as mud. Morgan's words echoed in her head: It should be arriving any minute now .
Whatever Morgan had planned, it was too late to stop it. All I could do was wait for it to arrive, and hope that when it did, Noah and I would be strong enough to weather it.
Before I had a chance to dwell on the churning in my stomach, the ding of a few phones caught my attention.
The change in the room was subtle at first—a ripple of movement, heads bowing over the blue glow of phone screens, whispers passed between lips and ears.
I noticed it like one might notice the first few raindrops before a downpour: insignificant until they weren't. Something was happening.
Something was spreading through the rehearsal dinner like a virus, infecting one guest after another with furtive glances and hastily hidden phones.
My gaze darted to where Noah still stood with his brothers, his back to the room.
He hadn't noticed yet, still caught up in whatever surprise his brothers were orchestrating.
But others had. Even Kristen was frowning at her phone.
Two tables over, one of Noah's co-stars leaned in to whisper something to her husband, their eyes flicking toward me before quickly looking away.
Even my mother had her phone out now, her brow furrowed in concentration as she read something on the screen.
My own phone sat face-down beside her plate. I'd silenced it for the dinner, but now I noticed a soft blue light pulsing from beneath it—a notification. With fingers that suddenly felt clumsy, I turned the phone over.
A Google Alert. I had set them up a few days ago, after Noah and I went public with our relationship, as Kristen had suggested. It had seemed practical at the time—a way to monitor what was being said about us online, to catch any mentions that might affect both of our professional reputations.
A headline from a gossip blog I recognized as particularly vicious lit up my screen: "BLIND ITEM: The Therapist's Couch—A Step Too Close to the Casting Couch?"
My mouth went dry as my thumb hovered over the link for a moment before I tapped it; I knew what I would find but I couldn’t stop myself.
The article loaded, black text stark against a white background. It wasn't long—just a few paragraphs—but it didn't need to be.
"What recent bride is using her marriage to an A-list actor from a popular vampire drama to fill her therapy practice with celebrity clients?
Sources say she's been using his name to cozy up to everyone in town.
Word is she's offering 'exclusive insights' into the Hollywood scene based on pillow talk with her newlywed husband.
Our source tells us she's even name-dropped her husband to secure high-profile clients who might otherwise be out of her league.
Talk about a marriage of convenience! Another source tells us she intentionally got her husband drunk in Atlantic City to coerce him into the marriage.
Seems like this therapist needs a reality check—using your husband's connections for professional gain isn't just ethically questionable, it's potentially career-ending.
But hey, at least the wedding registry will be well-stocked! "
The blood drained from my face so quickly I felt lightheaded.
The words blurred before my eyes, but I'd read enough.
More than enough. I looked up from my phone to find the room had grown quieter, the murmurs more pointed.
And the eyes—so many eyes now turning toward me, some curious, some pitying, some already judging.
My gaze locked with Morgan's across the room as she raised her wine glass in a mock toast, her smile as cold as winter.
This was the wedding present. This was the revelation Morgan had promised.
A carefully crafted attack aimed directly at the heart of my professional integrity.
And one that somehow kept Noah from being in the crossfire.
If anything, he still looked like the victim.
This would be easy for him to bounce back from.
A phoenix who can rise from the ash of a nonconsensual, emotionally abusive marriage.
My hands had gone numb around my phone, but I felt a heat rising in my chest—not embarrassment, though that was there too, but a burning, choking anger.
This wasn't just malicious gossip. This was my life.
My career. Everything I'd worked for, reduced to insinuations of impropriety and professional misconduct.
A waiter passed by, and I caught the way his eyes lingered on Noah first, then me, recognition dawning.
The blind item might not have named me directly, but in this room, with these people, there was no mistaking who it referred to.
By tomorrow morning, my name would be attached to it explicitly, the thin veil of anonymity torn away by social media speculation and follow-up articles.
I looked toward Noah again, desperate for his steady presence, only to find him already moving toward me, phone in hand. His expression had changed—the joy replaced by a thunderous concern. Someone had shown him. He knew.
But it was the faces behind him that caught and held my attention.
Noah's family; his brothers, his sisters—people who had welcomed me with varying degrees of warmth over the past week.
Now they watched me with new eyes, recalibrating, reassessing.
Did they believe the gossip? Were they wondering if I'd been using Noah all along?
Only Callie gave me a sympathetic smile from across the room.
My own mother was pushing back her chair, rising to come to my side, but I couldn't bear the thought of comfort from anyone but Noah right now. Not when my entire world was splintering around me. Not when strangers were reading lies about my professional ethics, my motivations for loving Noah.
I forced myself to breathe, to straighten my spine, to hold my head high. I wouldn't crumble here, in front of everyone. I wouldn't give Morgan the satisfaction.
But God, it hurt. It hurt to see the doubt in the eyes of people I'd come to care about.
It hurt to know that come morning, my patients might read this and wonder.
It hurt to have two of the purest things in my life—my love for Noah and my work ethic—twisted into something calculated and self-serving.
Noah reached my side like a storm making landfall—contained fury in every line of his body.
He took the phone from my trembling hands, the muscle in his jaw jumping more violently.
When he finally looked up, his eyes weren't on me but across the room, fixed on Morgan with the kind of focus that could burn through steel.
"Noah," I whispered, my fingers catching at his sleeve. "Don't make a scene?—"
But he was already moving, cutting through the murmuring crowd with the determination of someone who had made a decision and wouldn't be swayed from it.
I followed, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Every eye in the room tracked our movement and I could practically hear the mental calculations being made: Is it true?
Will there be a scene? Should I be filming this?
Morgan remained seated as Noah approached, her posture relaxed, almost amused, as if she'd been waiting for this moment all evening. She took a deliberate sip of her wine before looking up at him, her lips curved in a smile that held no warmth.
"Noah, is something wrong?" she asked, her voice pitched just loud enough for nearby tables to hear.
"You're leaving," Noah said. The words came out flat, dangerous. "Now."
Morgan tilted her head, considering him with the indulgent patience one might show a child. "Am I? The rehearsal dinner's not even over.”
"I warned you. I told you that if you so much as looked at Rosa wrong, you’re out." Noah's hands were clenched at his sides, knuckles white with restraint. "I don't care how it looks anymore. I don't care what people say. You're going to get up and walk out that door, or I swear to God, Morgan?—"
"You'll what?" she challenged, setting down her glass with a sharp clink. "Cause a scene? Give the gossip blogs something else to write about? That’ll look real good for your precious Rosa’s reputation.”
The mention of my name from Morgan's mouth seemed to push Noah to the edge of his control. He leaned down, his voice dropping to a hiss. "This ends. Now. Whatever game you're playing, whatever sick satisfaction you're getting from this—it stops tonight."
Morgan's smile widened. "Or what?"
Before Noah could answer, Kristen materialized at his side, her hand closing around his arm with professional urgency.
"Noah," she said, her voice low but firm. "A word."