Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Evan
I woke up because Nico was too still. Not asleep—I could tell from his breathing. He was lying there, rigid, staring at his phone.
I opened my eyes. Gray light filtered through the blinds. Early—earlier than either of us needed to be awake.
His phone was in his hand, screen lit, and the color was gone from his face.
“Nico?”
I propped myself up on an elbow. “What’s wrong?”
He turned the phone toward me without a word.
A photo filled the screen.
Us. Last night. In the restaurant’s parking lot.
Kissing.
We were in the shadows, but the camera had found us anyway. Found me—hands fisted in his jacket, mouth on his, every careful wall I’d built made suddenly, completely irrelevant.
My stomach dropped through the floor.
“Oh God,” I whispered.
Nico scrolled down. There were more. Us walking to our cars, his arm around my waist. Casual, unguarded, the body language of two people who thought they were alone. Another kiss the shadows hadn’t hidden after all.
Comments already in the hundreds. Supportive ones, hateful ones, slurs and celebrations side by side. My eyes went straight to the worst of them.
“Where?” I managed.
“It’s everywhere. Social media, sports blogs…”
He answered André’s call on speakerphone. I heard the words—viral overnight, management, media—from somewhere that felt very far away.
“No,” Nico said when André asked if he was okay.
After he hung up, we sat for a moment in silence. I looked at the headlines again. Unidentified man.
“They don’t know who I am yet,” I said.
“Yet,” Nico echoed.
We both understood what that meant.
“I need to go home.” I said it before I’d thought it through. Flat, certain. “I need my own space.”
“Stay. We’ll figure it out—”
“I can’t think here.” I was already moving, reaching for my clothes. “I’ll call you.”
I didn’t look at him when I left. I couldn’t.
The drive home was a blur. My hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, the rising sun too bright and wrong.
When I finally got to my apartment, I locked the door and sank onto the couch.
Then I made the mistake of opening my phone.
I searched Nico’s name and watched the results load.
Photos of us in that parking lot, reposted across dozens of accounts.
My face was in every one of them. No name yet, just “unidentified man,” but it was clearly me—my profile, my jacket, my hands on his chest.
I sat there for thirty seconds, maybe less. Then something clicked over, the part of my brain that had rebuilt a career from scratch after Ryan, the part that knew how fast these things moved.
I raced to my office. I opened my website’s backend and took down my professional headshot—pulled it entirely, leaving the space blank.
I went to my LinkedIn profile and replaced my photo with the firm’s logo, then locked down every setting that showed my location, my connections, and my activity.
They didn’t know who I was yet, but they were looking, and I wasn’t going to make it easy for them to find me.
Then I texted Danny. Not a spiral, not a call. Just four words.
Evan
I need you. Come.
That was all I could manage before the competence ran out.
I made the mistake of going back to the comments.
The photos were everywhere. Sports forums. Gossip blogs. All the platforms at once. Thousands of comments multiplying in real time.
Most people still didn’t know who I was. But they were trying to find out.
Someone find out who this guy is.
I saw them at that frozen yogurt place a couple of weeks ago when I got a pic with Briggs. Someone posted a photo of Nico from that night, taken before the fan had walked over to Nico. I was visible in the background, holding our yogurt cups.
That’s the same guy from the parking lot photos!
The pieces were coming together. People were hunting.
Three hours after I’d gotten home, someone found me.
Got him. Reverse image search. Evan Beckett. Marketing consultant in San Jose.
My LinkedIn profile started circulating. My company website. I’d pulled the headshot within minutes of getting home, but it hadn’t mattered, Google had cached it, and the cached version was already everywhere, attached to my name, my city, my profession.
Then someone went deeper.
His LinkedIn says he used to work in LA. Let me check something…
Ten minutes later:
HOLY SHIT. Evan Beckett used to go by Evan Hunter. He dated Ryan Pierce three years ago.
Old photos surfaced. Ryan and me at a red-carpet event. At a restaurant. Getting into his car. Headlines from three years ago: Ryan Pierce and Boyfriend Evan Hunter Spotted in LA.
The narrative formed in real time, and I watched it happen.
He has a type: famous men.
From Hollywood actor to NHL star.
Is Evan Beckett a celebrity chaser?
Gold digger confirmed.
My vision blurred. I couldn’t breathe through my tight chest.
My work email flooded with media requests—ESPN, Sports Illustrated, half a dozen outlets I’d never heard of.
A client email: Given the recent media attention surrounding your personal life, we think it’s best to pause our engagement.
Another: Can we reschedule our Monday meeting?
My professional reputation—the one thing I’d rebuilt after Ryan, the foundation of my new life—was crumbling in real time.
I set my phone down and stared at the wall.
Nico had been texting. I could see his name on the screen every time a new message came in.
Nico
Please just tell me you’re okay. I’m losing my mind here.
I looked at his name on the screen for a long time.
He hadn’t done this to me deliberately. I knew that. But we’d both been careless—I’d seen the parking lot, felt the openness of it, and I’d kissed him back every time. Four times. Because I was warm and tired and glad he was home and I’d stopped being careful too. We’d both stopped being careful.
It wasn’t the same as Ryan. But it still mattered, and we’d both let it happen.
I typed with shaking hands.
Evan
I’m home. I’m okay.
Nico
Can I come over? Please. I need to see you.
I stared at the message.
Evan
Not yet. I need time to think.
Nico
How much time?
Evan
I don’t know.
I put the phone down and went back to watching my life disintegrate in the comments.
Danny arrived around two in the afternoon. He came in with takeout and took one look at me—unwashed, still in yesterday’s clothes, phone back in my hand—and sat down beside me.
“How bad is it?” he asked.
“Bad.”
He took the phone out of my hand and turned it off.
“Hey—”
“No. You’re done.” He guided me to the kitchen table. “Eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I don’t care.”
We sat in silence while I forced down a few bites.
“They found me,” I said finally. “They know who I am. They found Ryan. They’re saying I have a pattern of dating famous men for money.”
Danny’s jaw tightened. “Strangers on the internet who don’t know you.”
“But everyone else will see it. My clients are already—”
“What does Nico think?”
I stared at my plate. “I don’t know. I haven’t talked to him.”
“Evan…”
“He’s been texting. I don’t know what to say.”
Danny was quiet for a moment. “Are you going to run again?”
The question hit like a physical blow, and I sucked in a breath.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you love him?”
I thought about the way he’d said, “I did this,” blaming himself before I could. How even now, in the worst moment of his life, his text had been to ask if I was okay.
“I don’t know,” I whispered. But that was a lie.
Danny saw right through it. “Yes you do. You’re just scared.”
“Of course I’m scared. This is my worst nightmare happening in real time.”
“I know. But you have to decide if he’s worth it. Because it’s not going away. The photos are out there. People know who you are now.” He held my gaze. “You can only go forward.”
Forward. Into the media circus. Into everything I’d run from three years ago.
“I don’t know if I can do it again,” I admitted.
“Maybe you can’t. And that’s okay too.” His voice softened. “But you owe it to yourself—and to Nico—to figure out which it is. Don’t run without talking to him first.”
I turned my phone back on.
Twenty-two texts. I scrolled through them quickly. Most were variations of the same thing—Nico checking in every twenty minutes or so, the messages getting quieter and more controlled as the hours passed, like he was trying not to overwhelm me while also being unable to stop entirely.
The most recent was from ten minutes ago.
Nico
I’m here whenever you’re ready. No pressure. Just tell me you’re okay.
I looked at Danny. He nodded.
Evan
I’m okay. Danny’s here. You can come over.
The response came in fifteen seconds.
Nico
On my way. Twenty-five minutes.
Danny made me shower, change, and brush my teeth. Made me sit on the couch and breathe. When the knock finally came, he answered the door.
Nico stood there in a hoodie and a baseball cap pulled low, clearly trying to be inconspicuous. He looked exhausted, with shadows under his eyes and a tight jaw.
His gaze went straight to me.
“I’ll give you two some privacy,” Danny said. He squeezed Nico’s arm briefly on his way out, a gesture that surprised me, and then he was gone.
For a long moment, Nico and I just looked at each other across the room.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “This is my fault.”
“It’s not your fault someone took photos.”
“It’s my fault I kissed you in that parking lot. I knew it wasn’t private enough. I did it anyway.” He held my gaze. “That’s on me.”
“It’s on both of us,” I said. “I kissed you back. Every time. I knew where we were and I kissed you back anyway.” I met his eyes. “I’m not letting you carry this alone.”
He looked at me for a moment, something moving through his expression that I couldn’t quite name. Relief, maybe. Or gratitude. Or just the feeling of being seen accurately by someone who could have chosen not to.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Both of us.”
He crossed to the couch but didn’t sit. Just stood there, hands in his pockets, looking lost. “What are you thinking?” he asked.
“I’m thinking this is exactly what I was afraid of.
” My voice cracked. “They found me, Nico. They found Ryan. They’re saying I’m using you, that I have a pattern.
Clients are dropping me. My professional email is full of media requests.
” I wrapped my arms around myself. “Everything I rebuilt after Ryan is falling apart.”
“I’m going to fix this—”
“How?” I looked up at him. “How do you fix this when it’s already everywhere?”
He didn’t have an answer.
“Your parents and Miguel probably know by now,” I said.
“Yeah.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I need to call them.”
We were both silent for a moment. Then Nico moved to sit beside me on the couch, leaving a space between us.
“What do you need?” he asked. “Tell me what you need and I’ll do it.”
I thought about it.
Privacy. Control. My old life back. None of which were possible anymore.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“Will we?” I met his eyes. “Because right now I can’t see how. The media attention, my career, your family… how do we survive this?” My voice broke.
Nico reached for my hand. I let him take it.
“I can’t do this alone,” I said, the words coming out raw.
“I need you. But I don’t know how to be with you when being with you means my clients are reading about me in gossip columns.
When it means strangers are hunting for my name online, my work email is full of media requests, everything I built here is attached to a story I didn’t choose. ”
He pulled me into his arms, and I let him. Let myself lean against his chest and just breathe.
“We’ll figure it out,” he said. “I don’t know how yet. But we will.” He paused. “Wesley offered to help if this ever happened. He said to call him before anyone else.”
I remembered the name. Griffin Lapierre’s partner, the PR manager.
I also knew what PR managers did. Ryan’s team had been full of them: careful, professional, relentlessly focused on the narrative.
They’d picked my clothes for red carpets.
Coached me on what not to say. Decided which photos Ryan’s publicist would approve and which ones made me look like a liability.
I hadn’t been a person to them. I’d been a variable.
“Let me think about it,” I said.
Nico looked into my eyes but didn’t push. “Okay. Whenever you’re ready.”
I stayed in his arms for a long while. We didn’t solve anything. There was nothing to solve yet, just the wreckage to sit with and the phones that kept buzzing with things neither of us was ready to deal with.
The world had changed overnight, and there was no going back.