Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
JADE
Devon finds me on the floor behind the bar, mascara streaked down my cheeks, my phone still clutched in my claw-like grip.
He drops to his knees beside me and pulls me against his chest, and I let him hold me in a way I haven't allowed since before New York. His heart pounds against my ear, fast and furious, and I know he's seen the posts too.
“Why is she doing this to us?” I sob, clinging to him.
“I don’t know, baby. We need to go home," he says into my hair, his voice thick with emotion. "Now."
I nod against his chest, unable to form words.
The drive is silent except for my ragged breathing. Devon keeps one hand on my thigh, his thumb stroking back and forth like he's trying to remind me he's here. I stare at my phone screen, watching the comments multiply.
I shouldn’t, but it’s like watching a car crash, isn’t it? You can’t look away.
She really thought she could keep him? Desperate vibes tbh. Imagine being cheated on AND publicly humiliated.
Ouch. Fucking ouch.
At home, Devon guides me to the couch and wraps a blanket around my shoulders like I'm a trauma victim. I suppose I am.
"Give me your phone," he says. "I'm blocking her on everything."
I hand it over without argument, watching him work through my accounts with fury in his grim expression. Instagram. Facebook. Twitter. He screenshots every post, every comment, every tag, adding them to our shared folder of evidence.
"I'm reporting the posts," he mutters. "Defamation. Harassment. Whatever sticks."
But I know it won't matter. The damage is done.
My author name—the identity I've spent years building—is now associated with scandal and humiliation. My pen name means nothing with my real identity attached to it. I feel raw and exposed, like a wire that’s been cut mid-power.
The readers who fell in love with my friends-to-lovers stories will now picture me as the pathetic wife who couldn't see what was happening under her nose.
Too hot for her.
The words echo through my skull, finding their home among all the other cruel things Mila has said over the years.
You're so brave wearing that—I could never get away with it.
Did you really think he'd stay?
"Done." Devon sets my phone on the coffee table. "She can't contact you through any platform now. And I've taken screenshots of everything for the police."
"The comments are still there." My voice sounds hollow. "People are sharing it."
“Fuck them. They don’t know a single thing about us, Jade.”
I pull the blanket tighter around myself. "What about your gym? Her yoga classes?"
"I'm calling them first thing tomorrow. With the restraining order pending and this—" He gestures at my phone. "She's got to go.”
I want to believe him. I want to believe this nightmare will end, but I can’t.
Right now, all I can think about is that caption: When your husband's other woman shows up pregnant.
Pregnant.
"I need a minute," I whisper. "Alone."
Devon's face falls, but he nods. "I'll make us some tea."
I escape to the bathroom with its white tiles and soft purple lights—and lock the door behind me.
The mirror is waiting.
I don't want to look. I've spent years learning to avoid my reflection when I'm vulnerable, knowing what my brain will do with the image. But tonight, I can't help myself. Tonight, I need to see what everyone else is seeing.
The woman in the mirror looks destroyed. Puffy eyes. Blotchy skin. Hair that hasn't been washed in days. My shirt pulls across my stomach in a way that makes me want to tear it off.
Too hot for her.
I grip the edge of the sink and squeeze my eyes shut.
This is what Mila wanted—for the public to join her shit-smearing campaign against me. For me to stand here and look at every flaw and every reason Devon might have wanted something different. She's been doing this to me since we were teenagers—making me feel like shit.
And the pregnancy claim. God, the pregnancy claim.
I've been trying so hard not to think about it. About what it would mean if it were true.
But it’s not. I know it’s not. It’s all part of her sick game.
Maybe she is pregnant. Even though she’s lying—the baby isn't Devon's—she gets to use motherhood as a weapon against me because she knows I don’t have it.
A sob rises from somewhere deep inside, and I let it come. I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the cold tile, my knees pulled to my chest, and I cry.
For the body that feels like a shoddy state of affairs. For the marriage I almost lost and might still be losing. For the eighteen-year-old girl who let Mila Harris make her feel worthless and never told anyone.
I cry until my throat is raw and my eyes burn, and there's nothing left inside me.
Then I hear Devon's voice through the door, soft and worried: "Jade? Tea's ready whenever you want it."
I wipe my face with the back of my hand and stare at the ceiling.
Mila wants me broken. She wants me to crumble from my insecurity, to prove what she's believed all along—that I don't deserve Devon, or happiness, and don't deserve to exist, full stop.
But I'm still here.
I survived her in high school. I survived my husband kissing her in her hotel room. I survived the confession, the lies, and the therapy.
She doesn't get to win this.
I push myself off the floor and splash cold water on my face. The woman in the mirror still looks wrecked, but there's something in her eyes that wasn't there before.
Determination.
I unlock the door and find Devon in the hallway, two mugs of tea in his hands, his face creased with concern.
"I'm okay," I tell him. It's not true, but I’m closer than I was ten minutes ago.
"You don't have to be."
"I know." I take one mug and wrap my hands around it. "But I'm choosing to be. Because she doesn't get to define me. Not my body, not my marriage—nothing.”
Devon sets down his mug and cups my face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the last traces of tears.
"You are the strongest person I know," he says. "And I will spend the rest of my life proving I deserve you. Even if you never forgive me completely. Even if we can't—" He stops himself.
"Can't what?"
His eyes are wet. "Have kids. If it never happens, Jade, I need you to know—you are enough. You have always been enough. With or without a baby.”
I gaze at him, my husband, the man I love. The man I’ve always loved.
"We're going to get through this," I respond. “Aren’t we?”
“Yes, baby.” Devon pulls me against him, and I let the mug of tea rest between us, its heat radiating through my shirt. I close my eyes and don’t correct him for calling me that.
Maybe we are healing.
I'll get more evidence and meet with the police and fight for a future Mila doesn't get to ruin.
She won’t win.