Chapter 35 #2
I stayed close to the wall, edging farther inside––the voices sharpening with every step I took.
“Her name is Emily Garland,” I heard Mason say, his voice tight and clipped. “Dean, I saw her ID with my own eyes.”
My heart stuttered. My back pressed to the wall as my pulse clawed up my throat.
“Slow down,” Dean said. His tone even, but I could hear the restraint in it—“What are you talking about?”
“I’m saying she’s not who she says she is,” Mason snapped. “You met her on that trip, right? The one where you were supposed to meet the buyers?”
Dean’s voice hardened. “You’re reaching.”
“I’m not reaching. I’m looking out for you!” Mason shot back. “We’re in the middle of a multi-million-dollar deal here, and this woman just—just appears. You ever stop to think maybe she’s here for other reasons?”
“Mason—”
“No, listen to me! I saw it with my own eyes. She’s not who she says she is—”
“I KNOW WHO SHE IS.” Dean’s voice came loud, sharp, cutting Mason off before he could finish.
The room went silent.
“What?” Mason’s voice finally broke. “What do you mean?”
Dean hesitated, then I heard the sound of his exhale. “I…” His voice faltered. “I hired her.”
The air left the room.
“You what?”
“I hired her,” Dean repeated, quieter this time. “She’s… an escort.” The word came out flat, stripped of emotion or feeling. “I hired her to pretend to be my fiancée. That’s it.”
Mason went silent for a long time after that. Long enough for the soft hum of the refrigerator to become loud in the background.
“You—Jesus, Dean. What the hell were you thinking?”
Dean exhaled again. “I thought if I looked like I was in love, Grandpa would stop worrying about me so much. It was a stupid mistake.”
The words hit like a blow—even though deep down a part of me knew they were coming.
I pressed a hand over my mouth, trying to stop the scream that wanted to claw its way out of my throat. It was a stupid mistake.
Mason didn’t speak at first, but when he finally did, his voice was softer. “Dean… what the fuck did you do?”
I didn’t stay for the rest. I couldn’t.
A door creaked open behind me, and a staff member came into the hall with a rolling cart.
I stumbled backward, heart hammering in my ears as panic sliced through my chest. I bolted down the hall, and the sound of their muffled voices followed me as I pushed out the side door and out of the building.
The sunlight hit me like a slap in the face. I ran down the steps, past the trees, my vision blurring through the tears I wouldn’t let fall—until my knees gave way and I crashed to the earth.
A strangled sob tore from my throat as bile surged up.
I doubled over, shaking uncontrollably as everything inside me poured into the dirt—grief, shame, humiliation.
But most of all, the wreckage of what I’d let myself believe.
That beneath all the pretending there was something real.
That under all the lies, there was us—something fragile and impossible and real enough to save.
But there wasn’t. There never had been. It was just another story I’d made up in my head, like all the others.
The truth hit harder than the fall. I pressed my palms into the cold ground, my breath breaking in uneven gasps as the taste of bile filled my mouth. Tears streamed down my face, hot against my cheeks.
For a long time, I just stayed there—knees in the mud, body trembling, the world tilting around me—until the sobs finally gave way to silence. Numbness eventually dulled the pain, and I forced myself to stand.
There was no coming back from this.
No way to face his family.
No way to keep pretending.
My hands trembled as I forced myself upright. My body moved before my mind could even comprehend where I was going, I was already running, crashing through the brushes toward the cabins.
When I burst through the door, George let out a startled bark before he realized it was me. I went straight for the phone, gripping the receiver so tight it dug into my palm, and dialed John and Tuesday’s cabin.
It rang once. Twice. Three times.
“Yeah?” John’s voice came through the receiver, low, groggy.
“We’re leaving,” I said, my voice ragged.
“What?”
“We have to leave. Now. Please, John—please.”
Something in my voice must have told him not to argue, because only half a second passed before he agreed, “Okay. Give me five minutes.”
I crashed the phone back on the cradle, my chest heaving as I tore open the closet door. I yanked my suitcase off the top shelf and threw it on the bed. Clothes, toiletries, anything within reach—I stuffed them inside without thought, my breath coming too fast, too shallow.
Every motion felt mechanical, like if I kept moving, maybe the panic wouldn’t catch up. Like if I kept moving, I wouldn’t hear his voice echoing in my head—She’s an escort. I hired her to pretend. Stupid mistake…
The zipper dragged closed—just as the door opened.
“Em?”
I froze, my pulse spiking so sharply I thought I might be sick all over again.
Dean stood in the doorway, sunlight outlining the hard planes of his body, his hair disheveled, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief. “What are you doing?”
“I’m leaving.”
He stepped inside, letting the door fall half-shut behind him. “I can see that,” he said slowly. “Why?”
I turned toward him, gripping the suitcase handle like it was my only anchor. “Because I can’t lie to them anymore,” I whispered. My throat tightened. “I can’t sit at that table with all of your family and pretend—”
My voice broke on the last word, just as John appeared in the doorway. His eyes darted between me and Dean, as if he had no idea what he’d just walked into.
Dean’s voice came quieter this time, careful—gentle. “Pretend what?”
Something in his tone made my chest ache. Like he already knew the answer but needed to hear me say it anyway.
“That I’m not just a girl you hired off the internet,” I said, my voice steady even though my whole body trembled.
Dean flinched, his gaze dropping to the floor.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The silence filled the room, heavy and suffocating. I waited—God, I waited—for him to say something that would change things. To tell me I was wrong. That I wasn’t just a lie he had paid for. That what we’d built was more than pretend.
But he didn’t.
The quiet stretched too long, until he finally looked up again.
I drew a shaky breath and met those beautiful eyes—the same ones that had undone me from the start. “I can’t lie anymore,” I whispered, the words scraping out from somewhere deep. “Not to them. And not to myself.”
“Em—” Dean’s voice was rough, raw, like gravel dragged over stone. He took a hesitant step forward, but before he could say another word, I felt George’s nose press against my thigh.
I looked down to find him staring up at me—eyes wide and trusting, but confused, as though he could feel every crack in this make-believe world splitting open around us. “Go lie down, George,” I said softly.
He tilted his head, nudging my hand once again, as though he didn’t understand why I sounded so sad.
“Lie down,” I repeated, louder this time, but my voice broke halfway through.
He sank right there on the rug, slow and uncertain, ears pinned back like I’d just scolded him. The sight of him—so loyal, so eager to please, yet so confused—nearly broke me.
Then John’s voice came from the doorway, quiet but certain. “Em…”
I blinked hard, forcing myself to look up. My chest burned as I tightened my grip on the suitcase handle. “Let’s go,” I whispered.
John hesitated, his hand hovering near the frame. His eyes moved from me to Dean, and something heavy passed between them—as though he knew we were both about to make a mistake, but there was nothing he could do to stop it.
I walked out the door without looking back and climbed into the passenger seat of John’s truck, buckling myself in before I could fall apart.
Tuesday was already in the back seat with the baby, who was fast asleep in her car seat. John slid behind the wheel a second later, his hand pausing on the gearshift before he turned toward me. “You sure you want to do this?”
I stared straight ahead, my voice firm but hollow. “Yes.”
His eyes flicked toward the cabin, and something in his expression shifted before he pushed the truck into drive.
Against my better judgment, I looked back, too.
Dean stood on the porch, one hand gripping the railing above his head, the other hanging loosely at his side.
His shoulders were drawn, his head tilted just slightly—as if he couldn’t quite believe I was really leaving.
The breeze caught his hair, then lifted the edge of his shirt, but he didn’t move.
He just stood there, still and quiet, his gaze fixed on the truck in a way that made it hard to breathe.
Beside him, George pressed close to his leg, ears pricked, tail motionless, as though waiting for a command.
For a single, reckless heartbeat, I almost told John to stop.
But I couldn’t.
Even when every part of me knew I was leaving behind the love of my life.