Fallon
Chapter forty-six
Manipulated Facts
Ding dong—ring a ding, ding, dong.
My phone lights up, a small orb of light beckoning me.
If Cyrus thinks this is appropriate, we’ll need to renegotiate our terms of peace.
Sleep is sacred in this house, especially after the endless hours spent cleaning up from the storm.
My nerves are still frazzled with the thoughts of Cyrus’s big hulking body dangling from a bridge.
Ugh, had he died before I got the chance to tell him how I feel about us. No, no, I am absolutely not dissecting my love life before coffee.
I had to threaten multiple felonies before he finally admitted why was limping.
The big oaf. Which, of course, did absolutely nothing to kill the attraction.
If anything, it made it worse. Because my brain immediately supplied the highlight reel of Cyrus from yesterday—cutoff shirt, ripped jeans hanging low on his hips, muscles working as he cleared fallen limbs like he was auditioning for some dangerously attractive mountain man calendar.
It’s honestly offensive how good he looks doing manual labor. And the worst part? He knows it.
I kept trying to behave like a normal, rational human being while Lani and the kids were nearby, but my thoughts were absolutely not cooperating.
Every time I look at him, my brain is like, yes hello, forget your responsibilities, make bad decisions, jump your boyfriend.
Is he my boyfriend? That label sounds so, juvenile.
Are we partners? Fuck buddies? Shit, this is too confusing.
The sweat on his back? Distracting.
The way his hair keeps falling forward, his hand lifting to brush it away without thinking? Criminal.
The slight hitch in his stride? Somehow, only adding to the whole ‘protective rugged hero’ situation, my body is taking entirely too seriously. I should be concerned about the limp. Instead, I was standing here thinking things I will absolutely not be confessing.
My toes curl anyway.
Because, unfortunately for my dignity, that man walks around like he has zero idea what he’s doing to me. And I’m suspecting that is the biggest lie of all.
The phone buzzes again. I snatch it up and focus on the screen.
Text after text: Lani asking if I’m okay, Cyrus begging me not to read any news and to throw it out before the kids see it, saying he’ll explain when he gets off work, urging us to lie low today.
Huh? What is he talking about? The last messages are from Jules:
Fallon, don’t give those bottom feeders a moment of your time. Cyrus’s a great guy.
Fallon—are you okay? How about I open the salon for you this week?
Let’s plan. We’re better off facing this as a united front!
Girl, I’m on my way with coffee and pastries. Be there in 10!
A knot of anxiety settles in my stomach. My libido drying up faster than a snail dashed in salt. I know something’s wrong. Probably the rumor mill running rampant. If there’s one thing this town loves more than Jesus, it’s a good scandal.
I loathe hearing about my life through other people’s mouths. I’m always the last to know what’s supposedly happening to me. I don’t read the news anymore—I can’t. The last time I did, it was his face on the page.
Cyrus.
Bloodied. Broken. Barely recognizable beneath the headline. I read just enough to confirm he was alive before I crumpled the paper and threw it in the trash. That was all my heart could handle. Knowing he was breathing had to be enough. Everything else—every detail, every image—was too much.
Even then, I couldn’t escape him. Not really. Not even when he wasn’t here. His time in D.C. hadn’t gone unnoticed. The media always loves a story.
Another text flashes on the screen as I stretch my legs, searching for the energy to leave my bed. I pull the phone closer, straining to read.
“I’m using our emergency key. Trying to be a supportive friend. Don’t shoot the messenger!”
“What the Fuddruckers is happening?” I ask the empty room.
I force myself from between the sheets, irritated. Jules is here to support me for something I know nothing about, with coffee. I shuffle over to pull on a robe before heading downstairs. Surely, it’s not the end of the world.
I was wrong. Do. Dead. Ass. Wrong. An apocalyptic catastrophe would’ve been easier to swallow. Okay, that’s dramatic—but it’s bad. Very, very bad.
Jules took one look at me this morning and immediately clocked that I was walking around in blissful, dangerous ignorance. Bless her heart. She wanted to ‘ease”’ me into it.
If ‘easing me into it’ means shoving me into a chair and proceeding to wallpaper my entire kitchen island with every newspaper, gossip rag, and online headline she could get her hands on.
There is no easing. Only a complete derailment into crazy town.
Now my kitchen looks like a crime scene dedicated entirely to my downfall.
And there I am.
Apparently.
Captured from a questionable angle, I am choosing not to emotionally process this, because why would I need peace today?
My red curls spill over a lounge chair, my expression caught mid—whatever that is—a smirk? Mischief? Poor decision-making? Not the seductive temptress I was going for. I look like I just lost an argument with common sense and enjoyed it.
The photos are…aggressively intimate, and were meant to be private. Wallet-sized images of. Me. Because nothing says “respect privacy” like mass-producing someone’s nearly-bare existence and scattering it across tabloids like confetti.
Me, in lingerie that’s clearly meant for private viewing, not for public consumption. Me, now immortalized next to headlines screaming things like:
LOCAL HERO’S MYSTERIOUS COMPANION—WHAT IS SHE HIDING?
Hiding? Ma’am I was hiding in my own house until five minutes ago.
The papers overlap each other in chaotic layers across the island—newsprint, scandal, speculation, and what I can only assume is someone’s unhinged attempt at journalism. Somewhere in the mess, Cyrus and the kids are dragged into it too, like an unfortunate family photo nobody agreed to take.
Billy. Liam. Cyrus.
My entire life: officially cross-referenced and sensationalized. I stare at it all for a long beat. Then look up at Jules. “…So,” I say slowly, “are we thinking arson or just moving?”
She doesn’t even blink. “Coffee first.” Honestly? Fair. Because,
I can’t breathe.
Not properly.
The room tilts at the edges of my vision, like everything is just slightly too far away for me to grab onto and steady myself. My shoulders lock so tight they ache, a cold, clammy sensation sliding down my spine and snuffing out whatever illusion of warmth I was clinging to a second ago.
I knew it was too good to be true. Of course I did. The universe has a personal vendetta against me. Fucking black cat energy on repeat.
The soft fabric of my bathrobe suddenly feels like too much, like it’s announcing me instead of covering me.
I tug it tighter anyway, which only makes it worse—like I’m more exposed now than I was before.
My muscles stay rigid, refusing to unclench.
Every breath feels shallow, stuck somewhere between my ribs and my throat.
I glance down at myself—pajamas, robe, eye patches drying at the edges—and immediately regret having a physical form. Pampered princess. That’s what this looks like. Overdressed for peace. Underdressed for war. On the kitchen island, the evidence sits in brutal, unapologetic layers.
Headlines. Gossip columns. Photos. My life, flattened into paper and sold back to me with commentary. Jules is beside me, chewing at the edge of her nail, green polish flaking off in nervous little bits as she rereads everything like she’s memorizing the damage for later use.
Each line feels like it’s being carved into my body. My chest tightens harder with every passing second. And I just stand there, staring at it all, trying not to fall apart in my own kitchen.
Hometown Hero-Leaves Family Behind for Glory
The Real Cyrus McCoy?
Cyrus McCoy Raising Secret Love Child
Terminated FBI Agent Saves Boy-Faces Public Firing Squad!
Fallon Lawson-Scorned Lover, Single Mother, Hits it Big with Stroke of Luck
Cinderella Story in the Boondocks? Millionaire Fallon Lawson-From Rags to Riches
Fallon Lawson- Rumored To Be A Bully.
Fallon Lawson- Millionaire Leaves Mother To Rot In Depleted Trailer
Fallon Lawson- Successful Businesswoman Or Liar?
Fallon Lawson- Small Town Sweetheart Or Rich Witch?
As if my work over the years can be diminished with snide headlines. Public opinions will bury me, after years of keeping a low profile… It’s every nightmare I’ve ever known.
Sinking onto a barstool, I meet Jules’ concerned face.
“I don’t understand,” I mumble.
She lowers her hand, reaching over to grasp mine, her voice thick with compassion.
“Fallon, sometimes bad things happen to good people. No one knows why. These are distorted facts-twisted stories about Cyrus’s life, yours too. But the truth? That’s what matters. And the people who matter know the truth.”
I shrink into myself, trembling.
“Truth matters when the stakes are low, Jules. Our stakes are not low.”
She tightens her grip.
“Fallon, your friends are your family. We’re going to rally around you, and together, we can get through this.”
My mother’s words from the article are now seared into my brain.
She doesn’t care who gets hurt in the crossfire.
There’s nothing inside me that resembles any emotions towards her; that place within my heart, I had always reserved part of it for her, no matter what amount of pain she caused, is now hollow.
She isn’t my mother, merely someone I had to survive.
My throat is clogged, heaving, and I sling my body on the floor to hug the trash can, vomiting. Crushed, and canceled.
“Oh, Sugar! Let me get you a cool towel.” Jules’ hurried footsteps echo around me as my body expels the stress.
A quiet whoosh cuts through the moment as the front door opens. We glance up. Lani glides into the kitchen, coffee and muffins in hand. My tummy rolls again; I grip the trash can, dry heaving the empty contents of my stomach. This is so bad.
“Good morning, girls.” Lani slaps her load of pastries and coffees on the counter, drawing up short; her hand flies to her mouth, eyes widening as she spots me on the floor, bear-hugging the metal can.
“Morning, Lani. What do we owe the pleasure?” I say weakly.
Her eyes crinkle, exhaustion etched into every line. I bet I know what kept her up. I would’ve lost plenty of sleep if I’d been informed. Lani makes her way toward me, probing.
“Is this pregnancy or stress, love?”
Jules snickers, but my lips pucker on instinct.
“Stress. I’m really not well enough for visitors. Did you need help with something?” Standing to cross the room to dispose of the trash bag and do a quick brush of my teeth in the guest bathroom that’s connected to the kitchen.
“We’re weathering the storm with you. These dirtbags won’t get away with this,” Lani barks, plenty loud enough for me to hear as the brush rolls over my teeth.
I can’t look in the mirror. I can’t; a quick rinse of the face and gurgling of water.
It’s as good as it’s going to get. I head back to the ladies.
My heart warms as I let the tears fall—tears I’ve been holding back for so long. Of course, Lani would be here, already a mother figure, forming plans for comfort and revenge. I really love this woman.
Jules pumps her fist.
“Hell yeah, Lani! Let’s kick their asses!”
Lani wraps me in a fierce, motherly hug-full of smells of cookie batter and sunshine. I cry harder, broken for Cyrus, the kids, and this world so out of touch with its humanity that tearing one another apart is all it knows.
She whispers in my ear. “I know, my sweet girl.”
“Some of the articles about Cyrus are awful.”
“Those vultures love tearing people apart without a second thought,” she reminds me.
“Is it true? Was it his operation that caused his partner’s death?” I ask.
A hoarse male voice answers from behind me.
“Yes. I’m the reason my partner, Liam’s godfather, my closest friend, is dead.”
Lani gasps as we separate, both turning. Cyrus stands in the archway, his hair tousled, dark circles under his eyes, his body rigid. He looks horrible. Sexy in a rumbled, sad way, but still.
“Bullshit, Cyrus,” Lani scolds. “While Caleb’s death is tragic, that’s what it is, a tragedy.”
Cyrus gives his mother a small, grateful smile. “Thank you for your support. Can you and Jules keep an eye on the kids? And get rid of those. I don’t want them to know any of this.”
“We should talk. Want some coffee?” I say quietly.
He nods. “Let’s sit outside. I drove the streets before coming here. Those vultures are working remotely. No strange cars on the road.”
“It didn’t occur to me to check,” I say numbly. He shrugs. “Comes with the territory.”