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I spot it then, my laptop, sitting crooked on the bed, the screen still glowing. Open. Exposed.
A sick feeling curls in my stomach.
No.
No, no, no.
I scramble across the mattress, my hands shaking, and pull the laptop toward me.
And there it is. Big. Bold. Unforgiving.
The Billion-Dollar Betrayal: Volcor Holdings Profited While Families Lost Everything.
By Ivy Monroe
Oh my god! Oh… My… God. Tell me he did not see this!
The breath rips from my lungs. My vision blurs.
He saw it. He saw everything.
The article. The headline. The reason he looked at me like I was nothing.
Last night, he told me he loved me. And for a little while, everything felt perfect.
The waves crashing against the shore. The soft breeze tangling my hair. Carter’s arms wrapped around me like he never planned to let go.
I can still feel him, the press of his chest against my back. The way he tucked me closer when he thought I was already asleep. The way his lips brushed my forehead like a promise.
And now… Now all of it feels like it’s slipping through my fingers.
My heart splinters slowly, piece by piece, as the weight of what I’ve lost crushes me from the inside out.
He thinks I betrayed him. But I didn’t even know it was there. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to piece it all together.
The draft. The email from my editor.
It came late last night, hours after I fell asleep wrapped in Carter’s arms. They’d had an intern put together a preliminary draft from the old files and then sent it to me to review. Because I told them—I told them—we had to approach it differently.
That it wasn’t just a story anymore.
But I never even opened the damn email. I fell asleep waiting for the file to load.
I didn’t read it. I didn’t even see it.
And now he thinks I wrote it. That I meant every word.
Tears sting my eyes as I grab my phone with trembling fingers. I call him straight to voicemail.
I try again, but the same thing keeps happening, straight to voicemail.
I text:Please. Let me explain.
The message delivers. But it never shows “read.” It just sits there. Waiting. Ignored.
I fire off an email next, rambling, desperate.
No response.