9. After the Love is Gone
AFTER THE LOVE IS GONE
TESSA
Two Months after Reveal Day
It’s been eight weeks since Saul walked out of my life, and I’m just as clueless about where he went as I was the day he left me standing there, alone, with three cameras catching every second of my heartbreak.
Now, I’m reduced to pacing my kitchen like a woman on the brink, clutching my phone like it’s the last lifeline keeping me from spiraling. The cold tiles sting against my bare feet, each step feeding the knot of anxiety twisting in my stomach. My fingers are raw from biting my nails, a habit I swore I’d quit but can’t seem to shake—not with my nerves unraveling like this.
“Gavin,” I say again, trying to keep the pleading out of my voice but failing miserably. “Please, just tell me what you know. I’m leaving LA in a week. I need something. Anything.”
Silence. I stop mid-step, holding my breath like that might make him talk faster. And then it comes—a sigh. But not the kind of sigh that says he’s caving or even feels bad for me. No, this is the kind of sigh that practically oozes annoyance, the kind that says he’s done with me, with this conversation, and with Saul and I’s drama.
The audacity of it hits me square in the chest, and I grip the counter’s edge to steady myself. Gavin is probably screaming with glee; me being jilted is reality TV gold. The least he could do is help me.
I know I’ve been relentless—eight weeks of emails, texts, and calls that would make a private investigator look lazy. Even I can admit I sound unhinged.
But how can I stop? Something deep in my gut, deeper than instinct, keeps screaming at me not to let this go. To find him. To get answers. I want to understand why the man who made me believe in forever disappeared.
“Tessa,” Gavin says finally, his voice flat, tired. “You’ve got to let this go. Saul made his choice. You have to respect that.”
Respect? Respect what exactly? That he left me in the lurch, humiliated and heartbroken in front of three rolling cameras? That he made me feel something I never thought I’d feel, only to rip it all away? No. Respect is the last thing I feel.
“I sound crazy,” I mutter, more to myself than to him. “I probably am crazy.”
Gavin doesn’t argue. He doesn’t reassure me, either. He just sighs again, softer this time, and I can almost hear him rubbing his temples. “Tessa, I get it. You feel like you need closure, but sometimes... sometimes you don’t get that. Sometimes you just have to move on.”
Move on. The words land like a slap, sharp and cold. Move on like it was all just a blip on the radar, like Saul didn’t reach into the depths of my soul and pull something out I didn’t even know was there. Move on like this ache in my chest isn’t a sign that something is wrong.
No, I can’t move on. Not yet. I don’t care if Gavin thinks I’m insane. I don’t care if everyone else does. Something bigger than me is driving this—something I can’t explain but can’t ignore. Saul isn’t just gone; he’s lost. And I’m the only one who can find him.
“Listen, Gavin, I’m not asking you to break any agreements. I just want to know if he’s okay.”
And if he’s alive. That man is a ghost. Does he even exist? Am I genuinely losing my mind?
“Look,” he cuts in, the annoyance in his voice barely hidden now. “Even if I wanted to help you—and I don’t—I can’t . Saul’s NDA is ironclad, tighter than anything you’ve ever seen. The man is a fortress.”
“A fortress,” I echo, bitterness curling around the words like smoke. “Funny how the guy who promised me the world is so good at building walls to keep me out.”
“Tessa,” Gavin says, his voice softening like he’s trying to reel me back in. “I get it. I do. But?—”
“No,” I interrupt, anger bubbling to the surface. “You don’t get it. I fulfilled my contract. I played along and smiled for your cameras. But somehow, I fell in love. And what did I get in return? Silence. He disappears, and suddenly, I’m the crazy one for wanting answers?”
The line is quiet for a beat, and I swear I can hear Gavin pinching the bridge of his nose. “Take care of yourself, Tessa,” he says finally, his voice a mix of regret and dismissal. And then the line goes dead.
The click echoes in my ear, louder than it has any right to be. “Take care of myself,” I mutter, tossing the phone onto the counter. “Yeah, thanks for the advice, Gavin.”
I press my palms against the counter's edge, trying to steady my breath. The refrigerator hums softly, filling the kitchen’s silence, but it’s not enough to drown out the pounding in my chest. My fingers drift to the pearls around my neck, their cool surface grounding me. But tonight, they feel different. Warmer. Almost alive, humming faintly against my skin—a sensation that’s been growing stronger since Saul disappeared.
A sign, Grandmère would say. The ancestors are speaking.
“Yeah, well,” I whisper to the empty kitchen, the words tinged with bitterness. “The ancestors aren’t the ones who’ll look like fools when this season drops on every streaming service in eight months.”
The pearls pulse again as if rejecting my anger, as if they know something I don’t. I close my eyes and let out a shaky breath, the weight of the past few weeks settling heavily on my shoulders. The dreams, the signs, the pull I can’t explain—they all point to one thing: I’m not done with Saul. Not yet.
My chest aches at the thought of him. The man who whispered promises through a wall, who made me believe in forever, who vanished without so much as a goodbye. How could he? How could someone so steady and deliberate leave me floundering like this?
The pearls hum against my neck, a steady rhythm that feels comforting and maddening. I don’t want comfort. I want answers.
“If you think you can disappear and hide behind NDAs and legal threats, Saul Mensah, you’ve got another thing coming,” I mutter, my voice sharp in the stillness. “I deserve to know why you made me believe in something that wasn’t real.”
I tell myself it’s about closure, about demanding he explain why he left me standing there, heart in my hands. But deep down, I know it’s more than that. It’s the dreams that won’t let me sleep. The way my heart clenches every time I picture his face. The gnawing fear that something is wrong—that he’s hurting, drowning in his trauma, and too proud to ask for help.
The anger surges again, hot and consuming. How dare he leave me like this? How dare he make me care this much?
My hand tightens around the pearls, their warmth seeping into my skin. Grandmère always said they carried the strength of the Sinclair women, a reminder that we’re never alone. Tonight, they feel like a lifeline.
I grab the file I’ve been working on, filled with everything I’ve compiled about Saul. Photos, printed emails, notes scribbled on napkins—it’s a chaotic mess, but it’s all I have. Every lead I’ve chased, every scrap of information I’ve uncovered, is in these pages.
“Alright, Saul,” I murmur, flipping through the file. “You’re not ghosting me that easily.”
The pearls pulse again, their rhythm steady and insistent. It’s as if they’re urging me forward, whispering that I’m on the right path, even if I don’t fully understand it yet.
I square my shoulders, determination flooding through me like a second heartbeat. I have one month left on my LA lease. One month to find him, to confront him, to demand the truth. He’s likely in one of three places: London, Accra, or Maine.
This time, I’ll find him. Not because I need closure. Not because I want to curse him out for leaving me in the lurch. But because, deep down, I know this isn’t the end of our story.
If he’s hurting, I’ll remind him he doesn’t have to face it alone. And if I’m wrong—if he was just a lying jerk—then I’ll make him look me in the eye and own it.
And then? Then I’ll go back to New Orleans. Back to my city, my rhythm, my life. For good.