Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
The second my eyes land on the photo, my skin goes cold. The blood drains from my head. Nausea spikes, sharp and sudden. My body is going into a fight-or-flight response—or shutting down completely. I grip the table like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered.
Claire’s right.
I’ve seen the other photos.
But not this.
They’re outside of a tiny café. Her arms are thrown around his neck, her fingers tangled in his hair. His hands land on both sides of her waist, holding her in place. Both enveloped in a passionate kiss—or so I assume from what I can see.
His back is to the camera. But her face is unmistakable.
His ex-fiancée.
“When—” I begin, a million theories flashing behind my eyes. Could this be an old picture that has resurfaced along with all the gossip? It’s blurry, probably taken from someone’s phone that was in that same place. “When’s this from?”
Claire swallows hard, clearly in distress. “According to the person who posted it, it was taken this morning. Somewhere downtown.”
The pressure in my chest builds like it does before I cry—but no tears come. All I get is anger. I’m so pissed off I’m seeing red.
“I have nothing polite to say,” I exhale. “I need a minute.”
“Hey, hey.” Claire moves to my side. “I’m sure there’s an explanation. We can’t even see his face. It might not be––”
“It’s him,” I cut in, jaw tight. “I know his back. I know that jacket. I know the way his hair flows back from the side. It’s him.”
My thoughts spiral. Five days ago, we were having a magical evening at The Anchor, all orchestrated by him. Now he’s out kissing her? It doesn’t add up.
I rub circles around my temples, trying to calm the pounding in my head. My whole body hums with disbelief.
Did I misread everything?
This whole time—every date, every outing.
Was I just another well-timed photo op?
My stomach turns. I stare harder at the image, desperate for something that screams it’s fake. A shadow that shouldn’t be there. A glitch. Or a reason behind it all.
There’s nothing.
How did I get myself into this mess again?
I wanted a clean slate, not another heartbreak. Especially not from someone who made Noah look like a warm-up act. And to think I was this close to risking my promotion at Mavericks for him.
I don’t even realize I’m hyperventilating until Claire’s hand settles gently on my shoulder.
“Breathe,” she says.
“I am breathing,” I whisper. “I just… I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I,” she answers. “He’s been so perfect. From the start.”
“Do you think it was all an act?” My voice is fragile. “Some perverse way to get back into the spotlight in the most dramatic way ever?”
Claire shrugs and gives me a sympathetic smile.
I picture everything—his notes at the bar, the premiere, the conversations that felt too honest to be fake. Even Tony would’ve had to be in on it. I shudder.
Maybe I’ve been blindfolded this whole time. A celebrity-status blindfold.
Is it possible to fake something that felt that real?
Is Hollywood a con artist finishing school?
“He wouldn’t do this…” I whisper.
Claire kneels so we’re eye-level.
“I don’t think he would either, honey.”
I nod. “I should call him.”
I reach for my phone, but her hand stops mine midway.
“No,” she says. “This is his mess to clean up. You don’t chase after an explanation that should’ve been offered the minute the photo was taken. If he cares, he’ll call.”
That’s the worst part of it all.
It’s not the pictures. It’s not even the kiss.
He never explained any of it. He had the chance. Multiple chances. He promised I’d know if she was ever around. And instead, I found out from the internet.
I’m trying to fight it as it happens. But every insecurity I’ve fought to silence—every shard of trust I’d regained—is all rushing back up to the surface. And not only do I feel betrayed, but also like I’ve let myself down.
Claire’s right.
I can’t keep being the only one fighting for the relationship. And I can’t be the one patching up someone else’s mess.
I exhale and give in, tossing my phone into my bag with more force than necessary.
I like who I’m becoming.
I’m more confident—more willing to say what I mean and stand up for what I need. Even at work, where I used to second-guess every email, scared it wouldn’t be perfect.
I’ll be damned if I let another man destroy all of that again. This time I’m framing things clearly. No more blurry edges.
“What now?” I ask Claire.
Lucy’s head pops up, a grin stretching across her face.
“Now we have a girls’ night!” she exclaims. “Pick an apartment. We’ll order takeout, give each other makeovers, and go out until we can’t feel our feet from all the dancing.”
Honestly? It wouldn’t hurt to let loose a little.
“Sounds like a plan,” I say, shoving down the twitchy urge to check my phone. I decide right now that I’m not going to mope—even with the picture burned into my brain.
The guys come by, wrapping me in a giant, slightly sweaty group hug. None of them mention the situation. But they show up, and that’s enough.
That’s something I’ll carry with me, I think. The people I met along the way.
“Have fun tonight,” Daniel says, his soft side blooming. He turns to look at Claire. “Keep it under control, yeah?”
Something unsaid passes between them.
Huh. I hadn’t noticed it before, but there’s definitely something there. I give her a knowing look, and she blushes.
We say goodbye to the boys, who are off on their own manly adventure, and head out. First stop: Lucy’s place. We give her ten minutes to pack whatever she’s going to need for her makeover. She returns with a bag big enough for a two-week all-inclusive holiday.
Next: Claire’s. She has one minute to spare and shows up with a small rolling suitcase.
It’s as we walk, looking at Lucy lugging a duffel almost her size, that I realize no matter how dark times may seem, there’s always somewhere to find that flicker of light.
We grab Chinese from the place near my apartment—my go-to comfort food. The store’s so small they have to stay outside, guarding their mini wardrobes while I pay.
Back at my place, we drop everything in my room and collapse onto the couches. A rhythm settles in where we swap containers every couple of minutes—always to the right, to keep it running smoothly.
“So,” I say, slurping a bite of almond noodles. “Am I missing something between you and Daniel?”
Claire blushes instantly. I glance at Lucy, and she’s already wearing a grin that says told you so.
“Why are you making that face?” Claire asks, defensive. The latter just shrugs. “There’s nothing going on.”
“Really? So those stares he gives you are… what? Blinks with extra passion?”
“Oh, they mean something,” Lucy intercepts quickly.
Claire huffs. “Nothing has happened between Daniel and me. We are professionals. Keeping it professional.”
“How did I not notice this before?” I murmur, half to myself.
Claire groans and hides behind her hands.
“We almost kissed once,” she spills. “When he first started working at Mavericks. Nothing else ever happened.”
“Well,” I say, teasing. “Could it?”
“Maybe in a parallel universe. One that’s far, far away from this one.”
Lucy and I exchange a look.
“That’s called denial,” she says, making everyone laugh.
We pass the containers again—choreographed like pros. It’s my turn with the chicken.
“Enough about my nonexistent love life. That’s not going to cheer anyone up,” Claire complains. “What about you, Lu? Got any fresh conquests to report?”
It’s been made known more than once that Lucy’s the free-spirited one. She’s not looking for anything serious, but she’s not running from it either. We should be more like her.
“Oh my goodness!” she blurts out. “I forgot to tell you about my last date!”
She’s giggling like she’s already halfway through the story. We stare at her intrigued while she tries to catch her breath.
“I matched with this guy on an app. Tall, good-looking, profile picture petting a golden retriever. His bio said something about being into adventures and travelling—classic bait, right?”
“So you bit,” I state.
“We start talking. He says he’s an accountant living in Waltham Cross. We chat for a week and finally make dinner plans in the city.”
“I think he was a catfish,” Claire wagers.
“I wish.” Lucy cackles. “I got to the restaurant and waited for fifteen minutes before he showed up. He mostly looked like his photos—keep in mind I’ve seen much worse.”
She takes a dramatic pause. “Turns out, yes, he studied finance. But his definition of being an accountant? Working for Mommy and Daddy’s empire,” she snorts.
“I gave him the benefit of the doubt. I mean, family business doesn’t automatically mean loser, right?
He treats me to dinner and invites me over to his place. ”
“You did not go all the way over to Waltham for this guy,” Claire groans, hoping to hear that she didn’t, but knowing she most definitely did.
“Where even is Waltham?”
“It’s not that bad. Like thirty minutes by train,” she says, casually.
“That’s a long commute to have sex with someone who only half-catfished you,” I laugh.
“That’s the funny part—we didn’t have sex.”
Claire and I gasp in unison. “What?”
“Nope.” Lucy shakes her head, clearly relishing the buildup. “We take the train, he walks me to this very fancy-looking standalone house. Opens the door and—boom—right there sitting on the couch are his parents.”
“He works for his parents, and he lives with his parents?” Claire chokes out.
“I didn’t even consider that possibility,” Lucy shrugs. “I was frozen. Just…standing there when his dad yells from the living room, ‘Is this one staying?’”
I curl into the couch, physically recoiling from secondhand embarrassment. “You’ve single-handedly made me feel so much better about my dating experience.”
“Anyways, this one didn’t stay.”
“Thank God,” Claire says, standing up and tidying the empty containers we’ve left on the floor. “Now, are you girls ready for a makeover and a night out?”
I groan and glance at my phone. Still silent.
“Do we really have to do the going out part?” I whine, all that earlier motivation gone.
My phone suddenly rings. All three of us lunge for it, and I manage to snag it first. Disappointment spreads fast when I see the name on the screen is not his.
“It’s just Emma,” I tell the others.
“Just Emma?” she scoffs from the other end. “I’ll forgive you, assuming this is about what’s online.”
I nod.
“Has he called to explain?”
I shake my head. She rolls her eyes and huffs.
“Men are the worst.”
“It’s okay,” Claire says, plopping down beside me. I tilt the camera her way. “We’re keeping ourselves entertained.”
“Not anymore,” Lucy calls from the opposite couch. “Julia’s bailing on us.”
Emma raises an eyebrow.
“I’m not bailing,” I protest. “I just don’t feel like going out. We can still do the makeover!”
“Absolutely not,” Emma says. “You’re going to get ready, look ridiculously hot, and then you’re going to casually stop by The Anchor—just to make sure he gets the message—before heading to the club to have a good time.”
I whine even louder than before. “When have I ever been that girl?”
“Never,” she says bluntly. “Because you were too busy being emotionally manipulated by your trash ex to care about your well-being.”
“Ouch.”
“I’m sorry if I’m being harsh. And look—I believe there’s probably some explanation for everything,” she says, her voice serious, “but what you’re not going to do is sit around all night waiting for a guy who hasn’t had the decency to call.”