Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
JADE
We go to the police station first thing, both of us bundles of anxiety that can’t rest, not even for a second.
We don’t know what Mila will do next, but we aren’t taking any risks.
Devon holds my hand as we wait on plastic chairs that squeak every time we move.
Last night, I watched the ceiling fan rotate for hours while Devon's arm stayed wrapped around me.
Every time my eyes drifted closed, I saw Mila's face contorting in that coffee shop, then remembered the text she sent to Devon: Accidents happen.
"Mrs. Locke?"
A female officer approaches us—she’s in her mid-forties, her dark hair scraped back, and eyes that have probably seen a thousand versions of this story before. Her badge reads Officer Gray.
"That's me." I sound like I’m far away.
"Come on back. Both of you."
We follow her into a small room with fluorescent lighting. I catch my reflection in the window—a fat mess with dark circles under my eyes and greasy unwashed hair—and look away before the critique begins. Not now.
Officer Gray listens as we walk her through everything. The conference, the hotel room. The kiss Devon finally admitted to. Mila's texts. Her pregnancy claim. Yesterday's confrontation at the coffee shop. The threats.
She takes notes without interrupting, her pen scratching against the notepad, the only sound in the room. When we finish, she sets down the pen.
"You've documented everything?"
Devon nods. "Screenshots, timestamps, contact methods. My wife created a shared folder."
“Good.” Officer Gray looks at me with respect. "Here's where we are. What you're describing is harassment, and the threatening language in those texts—particularly the 'accidents happen' message—gives us grounds to pursue a protection order."
Relief floods through me so intensely that my hands shake.
"How long does that take?" Devon asks.
"We can file for a temporary order today. A judge can grant it within twenty-four to forty-eight hours. The full hearing comes later." She pauses. "I need to be honest with you both. A piece of paper won't stop someone who's truly unwell. It creates legal consequences if she violates it, but—"
"It won't physically protect us," I finish her sentence.
"Correct. I'd recommend varying your routines. Different routes to work. Being aware of your surroundings. If she contacts you again after the order is in place, don't engage—document and call us immediately."
We spend another hour filling out paperwork. My hand cramps around the pen as I write Mila's name over and over, describing incidents in a detached way that removes the terror.
When we finally walk out into the afternoon sun, I feel like my soul has been sucked out of me.
"I need to work tonight," I say.
Devon's brow furrows. "Jade—"
"I can't sit in that house waiting for something to happen. I'll lose my mind."
He doesn't argue.
The bar is quiet for a Wednesday. I busy myself with counting bottles and restocking glasses, letting the mindless repetition soothe me.
My phone buzzes in my pocket every hour with texts from Devon. All okay here. Love you. I respond with hearts and keep working.
Around nine, the door opens, and I glance up automatically.
It’s Samuel.
He looks different from the last time I saw him—less troubled, maybe. I’m happy for him. He takes the same seat as last time, at the far end of the bar.
"Coffee?" I ask.
"Please."
I pour him a cup—fresh this time, not the hours-old sludge from before—and slide it across the counter.
"Thanks." He wraps his hands around the mug. “I wasn't sure I'd see you here again."
"I work here." The words come out snappier than expected, and I wince. "Sorry. It’s been a long couple of days."
"The long-week variety?"
“Yep. Still ongoing."
Samuel nods slowly, sipping his coffee and staring at the muted television above the bar.
"My divorce finalized last week," he says eventually. “I thought I'd feel something."
"Did you?"
"Mostly I felt sad and hungry." He shrugs. "So, I went and got a burger, then ate it in my car in an empty parking lot. I’m not too proud to admit I cried a little. Then I went back to my empty house.”
I don't know why that image makes my eyes sting, but it does. This man, alone in his car, crying into a fast-food wrapper because his marriage ended and there was no one to tell.
It could’ve been me.
"For what it's worth," I comment, "I'm sorry."
He meets my eyes briefly. "Some things can't be fixed. No matter how badly you want them to be."
I think about Devon. About the void between us that's been slowly closing over the past few weeks, only to be ripped wider by Mila’s fucking antics.
"And some things can," I hear myself say. "Be fixed, I mean. If both people are willing to put in the work it needs.”
Samuel considers this. "Yeah. Maybe."
He finishes his coffee and reaches for his wallet. I wave him off again.
"House rule. Bad weeks get free coffee."
"That's a terrible business model."
"I don't make the rules."
This time, he does smile—but he looks exhausted. "Take care of yourself, Jade."
"You too, Samuel."
He leaves, the door swinging shut behind him.
I'm closing out the register when my phone explodes.
Not Devon, or even Mila, this time. It’s Katrina.
KATRINA: Have you seen Instagram?
KATRINA: Jade. Call me.
KATRINA: NOW.
My fingers tremble as I pull up the app.
I don't have to search for long. It's everywhere—tagged, shared, spreading like a virus through the accounts of people I vaguely know from high school, from the neighborhood, from my author network.
A photo of Devon and Mila at the conference. It looks intimate. His head is tilted toward her, her hand on his arm. Except that the lighting is wrong, and the angle makes it look like more than it was.
The caption reads: When your husband's other woman shows up pregnant, and he swears nothing happened. Some people will believe anything. Poor Jade Locke.
Then, my pen name is tagged in bold letters for everyone to see.
This is who she really is.
Dizziness washes over me as I try to breathe through this. Somehow, Mila has found my fucking pen name. How is she doing this?!
Comments are already flooding in.
Omg is this real?
I always thought he was too hot for her.
Didn't she write that friends-to-lovers book?
Guess she couldn't keep her own man.
Tears stream down my cheeks.
The phone slips from my hands and clatters against the bar. Someone is making a sound—a horrible, wounded noise—and it takes me a moment to realize it's coming from me.
She's trying to destroy me publicly. My reputation. My career. Everything I've built.
I grab the phone and call Devon, my hands trembling so violently I can barely hold it.
"Baby? What's wrong?"
"She's posting about us online. About you and her. Tagging my author account, exposing my real name and my pen name.” I'm sobbing now, ugly and broken. "She's telling everyone I'm stupid for believing you. Devon, she's—"
"I'm coming. Stay where you are. I'm coming right now."
The line goes dead, and I sink to the floor behind the bar, pressing my back against the cold wood.
Those comments—too hot for her—the familiar shit seeping into wounds I thought had healed.
I wrap my arms around my knees and wait for Devon.
The threat isn't hypothetical anymore.
It's here, and it's spreading, and I don't know how to stop it.