Chapter 57
FIFTY-SEVEN
Saturday Afternoon
Ichose a restaurant Blaine and I used to frequent when we were a couple. There are dozens of paparazzi shots of us canoodling in quiet corners or dining on the patio—smiling, holding hands, pretending to be in love. We knew we were being watched. We lived for it.
I benefited the most from being Toby Lane’s girlfriend, though I never realized it until last night. Back then, I wanted the relationship to last forever—even though it rarely satisfied me. It was a romance built as much on PR strategy as it was on affection. And it worked. For both of us.
I fully expected Blaine to show up late.
Instead, he’s already here. Thankfully, I made a reservation or he might’ve chosen a seat hidden from the cameras.
But I made sure he’d be in full view. He’s seated by the front window.
I timed our “date” perfectly—5:30 p.m.—early enough for soft, golden sunlight to flood the glass, but late enough to imply intimacy.
This is the kind of dinner that the press assumes ends in a shared car ride and tangled sheets.
Blaine looks up from his phone and waves.
I strut slowly toward him, giving him time to take in every inch of me in this gold, short, sleeveless Roberto Cavalli.
I bought it years ago, after my first big check, when designer labels meant something to me.
Blaine used to love when I dressed like this. Sexy. Flashy. Compliant.
Now, I just feel like a beautifully wrapped decoy. I hate this dress. It isn’t me. It never was.
Back then, I was constantly shoving my square self into all of Blaine’s round holes.
When I sit across from him, grinning too wide, blinking too slow, gazing at him like he’s the sun—I realize something so simple it almost makes me laugh:
I never loved him.
I didn’t even like him.
“You look hot as hell. You sure you don’t want to order and take it all to go?” he croons.
I gesture to myself. “And waste this outfit? No.”
It takes him a second to chuckle. I think he really wanted me to say yes. Would the old me have thrown away a night out just to rush home and have sex? Maybe… Okay, fine. Yes.
Yikes.
“So Blaine, how’s it been?” I ask, launching the small talk.
He hates this question, always has. And he proves it again—just shrugs and grunts like that somehow answers it.
“Not good?” I press, because I never used to.
“Not bad,” he says.
“So not good and not bad?”
His eyes narrow. He’s already irritated. I have to rein it in—remember the optics. We’re supposed to look like we’re reconnecting. Not sparring.
“All good. Not bad,” he finally settles on.
“Excellent.” I deliver the line like a toast, and he grins again, settling back into his smug comfort zone.
He lifts his chin. “Did you wear that for me?”
“It kills me to say this,” I reply sweetly, “but I did.”
His eyes light up like a fool who thinks he’s still got it. “That makes me hopeful, because…” He leans in, rubbing his palms together like some dime-store villain. “I did it all for you,” he whispers. “I couldn’t watch you go down. I love you too much.”
Zara, do not burst out laughing. Hold. It. In.
My eyes widen with faux emotion. I thought pretending to be Jaxon’s girlfriend was the role of a lifetime—but no, it’s this. Right here.
I reach across the table and take Blaine’s hand. I know exactly how much he hates being the one passively held. His masculinity is made of wet tissue paper—can’t get too damp or it falls apart.
Right on cue, he adjusts our grip, making sure he’s doing the holding. Perfect. Vera, I hope you got that shot.
“Well,” I say lightly, “it’s a great gig. I love the script. Couldn’t put it down.”
Blaine leans back, basking in the credit. “That’s what I do. I look out for people who… look out for me.”
Finally. There it is.
I chuckle like he just told the best joke of the year.
Another one for the camera, Vera.
“Come here,” I say, curling my finger to beckon him closer. I let our faces hover inches apart—cheeks nearly touching, breath mingling, the press-ready illusion of a kiss.
“I want to show you something,” I whisper. “I call it…” I pause, lick my bottom lip—watch him practically pant. “An attitude adjuster.”
Snap, Vera. Get the damn money shot.
We both pull back at the same time. The moment’s over. Now we get to the real show.
I slide a small stack of folded pages from my purse and lay them out on the table like a poker player going all in.
“See this?” I tap one of the pages. “These are my lab results. See the part that says I needed meds? Now look who my only sexual partner was at the time.”
He scoffs, eyes narrowing.
The waitress appears, bouncing over like she’s ready for a casting call. Pretty, flirty—probably an aspiring actress. Usually, Blaine would flirt back, slip her his number on the receipt, then come back later and sleep with her. But tonight? He doesn’t even look at her.
“We need a moment,” I say.
She gives him one last desperate smile before retreating.
“You’re disgusting for this,” he finally mutters.
“I agree. I mean, what would your fans think?” I ask, all innocence. “Their heartthrob gave his girlfriend the clap? No wonder she shoplifts—look at the man she loved.”
Blaine shakes his head, growling, “What do you want?”
“Peace,” I say. “That’s it. We work in peace.” I lean forward and press my finger down on the paper between us. “And I don’t owe you a thing. If anything… you owed me.