CHAPTER EIGHTEEN – SECOND CHANCES #2
Page one. This time, I’m looking for tells.
I want to see the cracks in Talon’s voice, the moments where his mask slips and the real man shows up.
I want to know if the ending—his grovel, his apology, his offer to torch his whole career for love—is just the final manipulation, or if it’s the confession Professor Avery said to look for.
The one that means something changed, even if it’s just for a minute.
I read. I eat a cookie. I highlight.
First pass, it’s all familiar: the blonde muse, the cabin, the initial roleplay where “Kit” straddles the line between fantasy and humiliation.
But then I see it: the way the hero slips, just a little, in chapter two.
His sentences get weirdly soft at the end, like he’s afraid of what comes after the climax.
There’s a moment where he admits “Even as I used her, I hated myself for wanting her so much.” It’s a throwaway line, easy to miss, but it glows in the margin once I highlight it.
By page seventy, I have crumbs all over my chest and several blue notes: “Does he actually believe this?” “Liar or confessor?” and my personal favorite, “If this is fiction, why does it hurt more than real life?”
My phone vibrates.
I check the notification. Simone: Did you sleep with him again yet? If yes, do NOT TELL ME because I will literally die.
I roll my eyes, then type: You have to stop reading romance novels. He’s not a billionaire werewolf. He’s just a dude.
She fires back: But he is a hottie and you know me around handsome men. I always give them what they want.
I snort, then, almost against my will, think of Talon’s hands, his jawline, the way he could fix me with those eyes and make me want to tear his shirt off and his heart out in the same breath.
I type: He’s hot. But toxic.
Simone sends a string of laughing emojis, followed by: Sweetie, hot and toxic is basically my entire track record!
I go back to the book. By now, I’m in the chapters I skimmed last time.
Here, Talon (or his stand-in) describes the aftermath of betrayal with such bleak honesty it almost feels like a dare.
“I thought letting her go would be easier,” the hero writes.
“But every page I tried to fill with someone else turned to poison in my hands. I kept waiting for the loneliness to wear off, but it only grew teeth.”
I freeze, finger hovering over the passage. For a second I can’t breathe. He’s writing about his loss. About how much he misses me.
I finish the chapter, then check my phone again.
Simone: I just bombed another quiz. I’m going to have to become a Twitch streamer to pay rent. Or marry the first person who agrees to combine bank accounts.
I type back: You’re smart, Sim. You just need to study more. Also, was this the class with the hot professor?
She replies: Omg yes he’s gorgeous, Kat. And single. And young too, not insanely old and cranky like most of the profs at Century.
I giggle, then close the phone and get back to work. The book isn’t going to read itself.
For the next two hours, I’m deep in the story, flipping back and forth, cross-referencing scenes with my own memories.
The more I read, the more I see how Talon tried to write himself out of the corner he painted us into.
The sex scenes are filthy and intense—God, some are so steamy I have to put the book down—but the scenes that make my heart flip are the moments where he admits he’s afraid.
“I never learned to stay. Only to let them go, but this one hurt so much I wanted her to stay.”
I read that three times, then dog-ear the page.
By midnight, I’m tired and sticky with crumbs, but the margins are alive with color.
I don’t have any answers, but I have a theory: Maybe Talon wanted to be taught.
Maybe the whole point was to make me see him, not as a fantasy, but as a guy who needs help expressing himself.
He’s scared too, and is telling me through his story.
I check my phone again.
Simone: I’m up if you want to talk. Or if you want to come over and eat my emergency mac and cheese.
I hesitate, then type: I think I know what I’m going to do. But first I have to test him.
Simone: Yassss queen. Scorch him.
I smile, then, almost on impulse, open my messages and type a draft to Talon.
Do you want to meet? Botanical Gardens, Saturday at noon. Public place, neutral ground. Should be peaceful.
I hover over send for a long time, heart thudding in my ears.
I read the text again. I try to imagine how he’ll respond. If he’ll bring another contract, another apology, another version of himself. Or if, maybe, he’ll just show up as the man who wrote those last pages, the man who might be scared but who can’t lie anymore.
I press send.
The text bubbles away, and I toss the phone onto the coffee table, where it bounces once and lands next to the highlighter.
I close the book, tuck it under my arm, and pad to the window to stare out at the street.
The sky is low, full of clouds and maybe more rain, but there’s a weird, electric sense of promise in the air.
For the first time, I’m not waiting for someone else to write the ending.
I’m going to do it myself.
That weekend, I arrive at the Botanical Gardens early, legs jelly and stomach full of bees.
I need time to scope the territory, to make sure it’s safe, to convince myself I’m not walking into my own demise.
The front gates are busy—lots of strollers, retired couples, a bachelorette group already tipsy at 11:30 a.m. I breathe easier. Safety in numbers.
The koi pond is my target. It’s the most public spot, ringed by benches and usually swarmed with shrieking kids.
I pick a bench near the water’s edge, where the sun paints rainbows on the surface and the biggest koi laze just beneath, plump and content.
I plant myself there, clutching my messenger bag, the battered Angel’s Share inside like a talisman or a warning.
Talon arrives and there seems to be a hush because even in civilian clothes my alpha male can’t help but make an entrance.
He’s huge and masculine in dark jeans and a pale blue button-down—no leather, no intimidation factor, unless you count the way he fills out the shoulders.
His dark hair is roguishly ruffled, and his eyes gleam clear blue, slicing through the crowd until they lock on me.
He stops three feet away, doesn’t sit, doesn’t even move closer until I nod. “Hey, Kitten.”
I point to the far end of the bench. “You can sit, but if you try anything, I’ll scream and get us both banned for life.”
He grins, but it’s small and uncertain. He lowers his massive form, meeting my eyes.
For a minute, it’s just us and the sound of water and small children throwing breadcrumbs. I try to compose myself, but my hands won’t stop fidgeting. I realize he’s waiting for me to start, and the power shift makes me feel unexpectedly strong.
“So,” I say. “You’re here.”
He shrugs, slow. “I’m here. Ask me anything.”
My mouth is dry, but I force myself to look him in the eye. “Fine. I know some of this is going to be repeat, but I want to hear it again. When did you start using Sweet Lies? And how many women before me?”
He doesn’t even blink. “I can’t remember exactly, but I started using Sweet Lies maybe seven or eight years ago.
I had really bad writer’s block, and was drunk off my ass most of the time.
As for women, maybe a dozen? It could be more or less.
I stopped counting because, honestly, it didn’t matter.
I didn’t want relationships. I didn’t want any mess.
Sweet Lies kept it neat and professional. Or that’s what I told myself.”
I nod, jaw tight. “But you made them act out all the scenarios. The roleplays. Why?”
He hesitates, and for the first time I see him wrestle with the answer.
“Again, it gave structure to our interactions, and like Jonah suggested, saying that the roleplay was part of my “research” legitimized it a little. Maybe it helped me get a higher-caliber girl. But the truth is, I didn’t know how to be with someone unless I was pretending. ”
I take that in, let it sting. “And with me? Was it different, or did I just play the role better?”
He’s silent, but his hands are flat on his knees, open, not clenched. “It was different. You didn’t just play along, Kat. You… I don’t know. You broke the fourth wall. You called me on my shit.”
“And yet you lied the whole time,” I say, trying not to sound like I care. “You let me think you were genuinely writing a romance.”
He looks at the pond, then back at me. “I know. There’s no excuse. It was cowardly. I thought I could keep it compartmentalized, like everything else. But when you left, it wrecked me.”
The phrase hits a nerve. I want to hit him. Instead, I lean forward. “I read the book again. Cover to cover. Is any of it true?”
“All of it,” he says, and his voice isn’t dramatic, just tired. “It’s the only honest thing I’ve ever written, to be frank.”
We sit in silence, the tension simmering in the air between us. The koi flash gold and white in the sun, oblivious.
I press on. “So what happens now? If I don’t forgive you, will you just move on to the next girl?”
Talon runs a hand through his hair, and I see the frustration.
“Kat, it doesn’t work like that anymore.
I don’t want someone else. I don’t want to order off a menu, so I canceled my Sweet Lies account.
I’m in therapy. I’m trying to fix the part of me that thinks women are just sexy playmates and nothing else. ”
I almost laugh, but it comes out as a sigh. “You think I’m supposed to be impressed by that?”
“No,” he says. “I don’t expect anything. I just wanted to tell you what steps I’m taking. So you’d know it’s not a scene, not a performance. I’m being genuine about this.”
I study him, looking for the old tells: the half-smile, the deflection, the ego. But they’re not there. Talon’s posture is looser. His eyes don’t dart away when I push. It feels real, and it scares me almost as much as it comforts me.
I lean back. “So, what now? You want me to forgive you? Or just write a better ending?”
He shakes his head. “Forgiveness would be nice, but I don’t deserve it. And you should write the ending, Kat. Whatever you want it to be.”
My hands stop shaking. I didn’t expect this. I expected some hail-mary attempt, another contract, a promise of riches or fame. But this—just talking, just being here, letting me lead—is somehow more disarming than anything else Talon could have done.
I stand, brushing crumbs from my jeans. “I’ll think about it. But you don’t get to decide if you’re the hero or not. That’s my call.”
He nods, standing too. For a second we’re close, close enough I could touch him if I wanted. I let my hand hover, then, almost on impulse, let my fingers graze his arm.
“Thank you,” I say, and mean it. “For being honest. Even if it’s late.”
The handsome man smiles, small and a little sad. “Thank you for making me want to try, Kitty Kat.”
We part ways at the pond—me toward the east gate, him toward the coffee cart at the entrance. Neither of us looks back.
The spring sun is warm on my face, the scent of cherry blossoms thick in the air. I walk with my hands in my pockets, head up for the first time in ages.
Maybe there isn’t a happy ending.
But this time, I want to write the sequel myself.