Chapter 17
Snow - Three Days Earlier
I wake up alone, still exhausted from the night before. Wyatt had kept me awake for hours with his gentle lovemaking, like he was trying to memorize every inch of me before leaving at dawn. I’d fallen back into a deep, dreamless sleep after he left, and now my phone is buzzing on the nightstand.
I reach for it, blinking against the morning light. His texts from the airport and the one he just sent saying he’s landed fill my screen. His words are a warm, reassuring presence. I smile, the feeling of his love a temporary shield against the distance.
Love you too. Go be the handsome, brooding hero. I’ll be here when you get back.
I send the text, trying to project a confidence I don’t entirely feel.
I trust him. I do. But the world he works in, the world of manufactured beauty and performative passion, has always been a source of low-level anxiety for me.
It’s a world that feels dangerously close to the one I escaped, a world built on beautiful, believable lies.
I throw myself into my work, hoping to silence the insecure voice in my head.
I spread the financials for a new client across my dining room table, the clean, logical lines of the spreadsheets a welcome distraction.
I have a video call with the client, a woman who runs a small, sustainable apiary in Vermont, and her passion for her business is infectious.
For an hour, I forget about St. Lucia, forget about the divorce papers Patricia says should be finalized any day now, forget about everything except strategy and growth.
But the moment the call ends, my mind drifts back to him.
I picture him on a beach, the sun warming his skin, the camera capturing the handsome, brooding hero he plays so well.
I picture the beautiful people, the glamour, the falseness of it all.
I push the feeling down, chiding myself for my insecurity.
He is not Preston. He has shown me, with his actions, that he is different.
Preston made me feel small; Wyatt makes me feel seen.
Preston dismissed my dreams; Wyatt asks about them, remembers the details, helps me plan.
Preston never built me anything — he just bought expensive things his assistant picked out.
Wyatt spent weeks building me a bookshelf with his own hands.
Morning coffee without being asked. Late-night talks that last until dawn.
The way he looks at me like I’m the only person in the room. I have to believe that.
Late in the afternoon — barely twelve hours since he left — my phone buzzes with a text from Nico.
OMG, your man is on FIRE! Check this out!
She’s sent a link to a popular romance blog.
I smile, clicking it, curious to see what she’s found.
The page loads, and my breath catches. It’s a gallery of photos from the shoot.
Wyatt and Jade are on the black-sand beach, the sunset casting them in a fiery, dramatic glow.
The chemistry in the photos is undeniable, a perfect, cinematic illusion of desperate, all-consuming love.
The caption is a gushing river of superlatives: “The chemistry is undeniable! First look at Wyatt Ford and Jade Nelson on the set of Delilah Drake’s ‘Crimson Curse’ finale! We are breathless!”
The images are so potent, so passionate. I know it’s his job. I know it’s a performance. But the old wound from Preston’s betrayal, the one I thought was beginning to heal, gives a painful, familiar throb.
That night, I climb into bed with one of the books he’s on the cover of — a historical romance I bought months ago, back when Wyatt and I first started dating, but never got around to reading.
I study the cover: Wyatt in period costume, his expression brooding and intense, his shirt strategically unbuttoned.
It’s a reminder. This is his job. Looking devastatingly handsome with beautiful women is what he does for a living.
The photos from St. Lucia are no different than this book cover. Just another performance. Just work.
I repeat it to myself like a mantra until I fall into an uneasy sleep.
The second morning without him, I woke to another brief text from Wyatt — just a quick “Good morning, thinking of you, I love you so damn much” with a heart emoji. It’s sweet, but I’m still unsettled.
I make coffee and settle onto my couch with my laptop, telling myself I’m going to work on my business plan. But my focus is shot. I find myself drifting to social media, scrolling through the romance reader communities I sometimes lurk in.
That’s when I see it. The comments. Everywhere.
Wyatt and Jade are GOALS. That chemistry is insane!
I’ve always thought they were secretly together. You can’t fake that kind of connection.
Forget the book, I just want to watch them stare at each other for hours.
My husband looked at the photos and even HE said, ‘those two are definitely fucking.’ And he doesn’t even read romance!
I snort, trying to laugh it off. It’s absurd. These people don’t know him. They don’t know us. They’re romantics projecting their fantasies onto two people doing a job.
But the comments keep coming. Post after post. The same refrain: You can’t fake chemistry like that.
My phone buzzes. Nico.
Stop reading social media. It’s just his job. You know this.
I lock my phone and shove it under a couch cushion. She’s right. I know she’s right.
The third day is worse. I wake to another message from Wyatt.
Miss you. Can’t wait to be home. Love you so damn much.
I try to work, but I can’t focus. I try to read, but the words blur. I end up back on social media, scrolling through the growing frenzy of posts about Wyatt and Jade’s “undeniable connection” and sending screenshots to Nico.
My phone buzzes throughout the day with messages from Nico.
Snow, seriously, log off.
Don’t do this to yourself.
It’s. His. Job.
I’m coming over if you don’t answer me.
I finally text her back: I’m fine. Just working. Promise.
But I’m not fine. The social media chatter is a constant hum in the back of my mind.
That night, I barely sleep. I lie in the dark, my phone on the nightstand, willing it to buzz with a message from him. Something more than a brief, impersonal “thinking of you.” Something that proves I’m not going crazy, that what we have is real.
By the morning, I’m barely holding on. I wake to a text from Nico, sent at 3 AM.
Don’t check social media. It’s just work. Remember that.
The text sends ice through my veins. Why would she send that in the middle of the night? What has she seen?
My hands are shaking as I open my social media apps. And there it is. Everywhere. A major gossip site has an “exclusive,” and every romance blog, every reader group, every fan page has shared it.
The headline is a punch to the gut: “Co-stars or Couple? Wyatt Ford and Jade Nelson’s Intimate Island Dinner.”
The article is a masterpiece of suggestive speculation.
It’s a gallery of photos of their dinner on the pier, the candlelight creating an atmosphere of undeniable romance.
They are laughing, leaning in close, their body language a perfect picture of intimacy.
The article quotes an “anonymous source” who gushes about their “undeniable off-screen connection” and how they “couldn’t keep their eyes off each other. ”
My hands are shaking so badly that I have to put my phone down. This feels different. This isn’t a photoshoot with costumes and props. This is them, in regular clothes, having dinner. This looks like a date.
I force myself to get up, to make coffee, to pretend I can handle this. But my hands are trembling so badly I nearly drop the mug.
I try to eat breakfast. Toast. Something simple. But every bite tastes like ash. I stare at the cooling coffee, at the untouched toast, and I feel my world tilting on its axis.
I shouldn’t Google his name. I know I shouldn’t. But my fingers are moving before I can stop them, typing his name into the search bar.
The results load, and the top headline makes my stomach drop. A new “exclusive” was just posted a few minutes ago.
“The Morning After? Wyatt Ford Seen Leaving Co-Star Jade Nelson’s Hotel Room.”
The photo is grainy, obviously taken from a distance, but it’s unmistakably him. He’s walking out of her hotel room, a relaxed, happy smile on his face. The article includes a quote from a “hotel staffer” who says they “looked very cozy” and that “he didn’t leave her room until after midnight.”
My phone buzzes. Nico.
Snow, do NOT read the gossip sites. I’m serious. It’s all twisted bullshit.
I stare at her text, my vision blurring with tears.
Too late.
I need to hear his voice. I need him to tell me this isn’t what it looks like. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely unlock my phone, but I manage to pull up his contact. I call.
It goes straight to voicemail. His warm, familiar voice: “Hey, this is Wyatt. Leave a message.”
I hang up. Call again. Voicemail.
I text instead, my thumbs fumbling over the keys.
Please call me. I need to talk to you. It’s important.
Nothing. The message shows delivered, but no response. No three little dots to show he’s typing.
I pace my small living room, my phone clutched in my hand like a lifeline. I don’t want to be this woman. The suspicious, paranoid woman who sees a photo and immediately assumes the worst. Wyatt deserves better than this. Wyatt deserves my trust.
But the silence is deafening.
I call again. And again. Each time, voicemail. Each time, the cold, mechanical message that feels like rejection.
So I sent another text message.
Wyatt, I need to hear your voice. Please call me back.
I stare at my phone, willing it to ring. The silence stretches. Minutes feel like hours.
I call again. This time, it rings. Once. Twice. And then—
“Wyatt—” I gasp into the phone, my voice breaking with relief.
“Hey, babe!” His voice is warm but rushed, and there’s noise in the background — voices, laughter, chaos. “Sorry, it’s crazy here, I’m about to board and, hey, not that bag, the black one! Sorry, what’s up?”
“I—” My throat closes. He sounds so normal. So casual. Like nothing is wrong. “Have you seen, there are photos online, and I—”
“Photos?” He sounds distracted. “Oh, yeah, Leo mentioned something about the shoot going viral. Delilah’s thrilled. Look, I’m literally walking onto the plane. Can we talk about this when I’m home? Should be landing in like six hours. I—”
The line goes dead.
I stand there, frozen, staring at my phone. He didn’t ask what photos. He didn’t sound worried. He just brushed me off. Like it was nothing.
Preston used to do that. Dismiss my concerns. Make me feel like I was overreacting. “You’re being paranoid, Snow. You’re too sensitive.”
No. I’m not waiting six hours. I’m not going to sit here spiraling while he flies home like nothing is wrong. I need answers now.
My hands are steadier this time as I call him back. It rings once. Twice.
Then a woman’s voice answers, bright and cheerful.
“Hello? Wyatt’s phone!”
The world stops. My lungs forget how to work. I can hear her breathing, can hear background noise — the same voices, the same chaos from Wyatt’s call.
“Hello?” she says again, a laugh in her voice.
“Who is this?” I manage to choke out, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Oh! This is Jade,” she says, her tone warm and friendly, completely oblivious to the devastation she’s causing.
I hang up.
The pain is a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. But the shame, the humiliation of being made a fool of again, is infinitely worse.
My phone is still in my hand, the screen blurring through my tears. A notification pops up. Another article. My thumb moves automatically, opening it before my brain can stop me.
ROMANCE COVERBOY WYATT FORD CAUGHT SNEAKING OUT OF CO-STAR’S HOTEL ROOM AFTER MIDNIGHT
With a cry of pure, animal pain, I throw the phone across the room.
It hits the wall with a sickening crack.
I stumble over to it, my movements jerky and robotic.
The screen is shattered, spider-web cracks radiating from the impact point, but it’s still glowing.
With a trembling finger, I find his name in my contacts and block him.
The action is small, digital, but it feels like slamming a steel door on my own heart.
My eyes land on the bookshelf he built me.
It stands against the wall, sturdy and beautiful, every joint perfect, every edge sanded smooth.
He spent weeks on it. Measured twice, cut once, he’d said with that soft smile.
Built it with his own hands while I watched, falling in love with the careful, patient way he worked.
The day he finished it, we’d sat on my couch together, and I’d looked up at him and whispered, “I love you, you know.” I’d been terrified he wouldn’t say it back, that I’d said it too soon, that I’d ruin everything.
But he’d pulled me close, buried his face in my hair, and said, “I love you too. So damn much.” Like the words had been waiting inside him, just looking for permission to come out.
That was three weeks ago. Three weeks of believing I’d finally found something real.
The same hands that built that bookshelf, the same hands that held me that day, are the hands that were photographed leaving another woman’s hotel room.
I thought it was real. I thought he was real.
I curl up on my sofa, pulling a thick blanket over my head, shutting out the light. My phone buzzes. Again and again. I know it’s Nico. Calling, texting, probably on her way over.
I don’t answer. I can’t.