Page 20 of I Do, You Don’t (You Don’t #1)

Lara

T he hum of the engine settles into a low, comforting drone.

I watch the city blur past the passenger window, a kaleidoscope of storefronts and street signs.

I’m on my way to meet Matthew, the journalist from The Pigeon Express.

My palms are damp, my stomach a tight, anxious knot.

I keep replaying his email in my head, the one with the line that made my heart pound: “Your story is one of strength and resilience. I’d love to tell it. ”

I can do this. I have to. This isn’t just about my business; it’s about proving to myself that I am more than the girl he left at the altar. It’s about building a life so full and meaningful that the shame of that day fades into a small, distant echo.

My mind drifts to Gideon. I haven’t seen him in weeks, yet his presence lingers in the clients he keeps sending my way. It feels like a cruel kind of support, a quiet reminder of his guilt that only fuels my anger. It’s a debt I don’t want repaid, a debt I long to forget.

I know the story of the wedding will come up.

I’ve prepared for it. I’ll tell it without emotion, without self-pity.

It’s a fact of my life, a data point. I won’t let him turn my pain into a spectacle.

I will be strong. I will be resilient. I will be exactly what his email said I am.

I won’t lie about what happened, but I don’t intend to give him every detail.

I’ll focus on my business, on my triumph, not on his mistake.

I pull in to the café parking lot, my heart racing in my chest. The building is cozy and inviting, the scent of coffee and freshly baked goods drifting into the air. The perfect setting for a conversation about heartbreak and triumph.

Inside, I spot Matthew waiting for me. He’s all rumpled charm, with a smile that reaches his dark, kind eyes. He’s scribbling in a notebook, a pen tucked behind his ear.

“Lara, thanks for meeting me,” he says, extending a hand across the table. His grip is firm and warm. “I’m Matthew. I’ve been following the progress of your business, and I’m really impressed.”

I nod, offering a tight, professional smile. “Thank you. It’s been a journey, to say the least.”

We spend the next few minutes on small talk. He asks about the café, about how long I’ve been in the neighborhood. I answer steadily, my guard still up. I talk about the numbers, the spreadsheets, the satisfaction of helping women find their financial footing.

“And your story,” he says, his gaze gentle but direct. “The email mentioned you’d had a setback, a big one.”

I take a slow sip of my latte, the foam leaving a faint white trace on my lip. My stomach clenches, but I don’t flinch. I can do this. I’ve practiced.

“I was left at the altar,” I say, the words dry and simple. No drama. No self-pity. “It was a public humiliation. A shock. But it also gave me a choice: I could either let it define me or use it as a catalyst to build something of my own.” I meet his eyes, my gaze unwavering. “I chose the latter.”

Matthew nods slowly, but the respect I saw in his eyes a moment ago vanishes, replaced by something cold and calculating. He snaps his notebook shut, the sound a sharp, final slap against the quiet air.

“An ins piring story,” he says, his voice stripped of warmth, edged now with suspicion. “Almost too inspiring.”

I freeze. Something is wrong, and my body knows it. The hairs on my arms rise. A cold knot coils in my stomach. The air in the room, so comforting just a minute ago, suddenly feels thin and hostile. “What do you mean?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

“I’ve done my research,” he says, leaning in, his tone dropping to a low, accusatory whisper.

His face is close, every line of suspicion etched around his eyes.

“I’ve heard about your brother, Calvin. His reputation isn’t exactly in finance.

And I’ve heard the rumors about what really went down at the wedding. ”

For a split second, I wonder if Gideon put him up to this, but I quickly dismiss the thought. Gideon has been singing my praises, even though I refuse to meet with him. Nor does this feel like Delilah’s interference.

No, this is something, someone else. Purely Matthew. He doesn’t even know me, yet he’s already made up his mind.

My breath catches. The air in the room feels impossibly heavy. I want to back away, to disappear, but I can’t. His gaze pins me in place. Still, I speak, confident, though I don’t quite feel it. “I don’t know what you’ve heard.”

“I’ve heard,” he says, his eyes locking on mine, “that you’re a victim who’s not quite a victim. That you’re using this situation to your advantage. That you’re leveraging your heartbreak for business.”

The accusation lands like a physical blow. It means the rumors are still out there, still swirling. Another consequence of public humiliation. People talk. And of course, it must be the woman’s fault.

A wave of heat crawls up my neck and into my cheeks. I want to deny it, but his words, so full of venom, freeze me in place. My hands, still wrapped around the now-cold coffee mug, tremble.

I force m y breathing to slow, refusing to be dragged back into the rumors. I’ve done nothing wrong.

“You’re accusing me of capitalizing on my pain?” I ask, my voice shaking with sudden, hot fury. “What about Gideon? Are you going to write about the man who actually caused it?”

Matthew blinks, caught off guard. The question hangs heavy in the air between us.

I lean forward, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. “I’m not leveraging heartbreak. I’m building a business from hard work. I’m not a fraud, and I’m not a charity case. Do your research on that.”

He glances at his watch, a dismissive gesture that makes my blood run cold. He’s done with me. The interview is over, and I’ve failed. “I have a deadline. Unless you have something to add, something to make your story a little more honest, I think we’re done here.”

He rises, his chair scraping against the tile with a brutal sound. He doesn’t wait for a response. He doesn’t offer a final glance. He simply turns and walks away.

The sweet, buttery comfort of the café has become a prison. The silence is no longer a friend but a weight, a heavy, suffocating presence that reminds me, once again, I am alone. And my story? It’s not mine anymore. It belongs to him, and to a man who will use it to destroy me.

The bell over the door jingles, announcing another customer. It’s Drew, looking small and fragile in her oversized hoodie. Her eyes find mine across the crowded room, and her face falls. She rushes toward me, her movements clumsy with desperation.

“Lara, what happened?” she asks, her voice a soft, anxious whisper. “I was across the street when I saw you through the window. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

The tears I’ve been holding back all afternoon finally break free. My shoulders shake, my body a silent, trembling mess. I can’t speak. I just shake my head, my lips pressed into a thin, tight line.

Drew pulls a chair from another table and sits beside me, her hand closing over mine, her grip warm and steady. “Tell me,” she says, her whisper threaded now with quiet steel.

I take a shaky breath and tell her everything, the accusations, the rumors, the way Matthew’s respect curdled into venom in an instant.

Drew listens, her face a blank mask of concentration. Her eyes stay fixed on me, unblinking. When I finish, she doesn’t speak for a long moment. She just sits there, chin tucked low, her hands, still swallowed by her sleeves, clutching the edge of the table.

Finally, she looks up, her eyes burning with a quiet fury I’ve never seen before. “I’ll handle it,” she says, her voice low and dangerous. “I’ll talk to that reporter. He’s not going to get away with this.”

I shake my head, my reply barely a whisper. “Drew, no. I can handle it myself. This is my business, my story. I’ll find a way.”

She shakes her head, her gaze steady. “Let me do this, please,” she says, her voice soft now, almost a plea. “I still feel guilty for standing by while Delilah walked all over you. Not anymore. You focus on your business, and I’ll handle a pesky reporter.”

She rises, her posture straight and resolute. I look up at her, my sister, my anchor, and a wave of gratitude washes over me, so powerful it nearly makes me dizzy.

I nod, my voice still a whisper. “Thank you.”

She smiles. “You don’t have to be strong all the time, Lara. I can be strong for you sometimes.”

We talk for a few more minutes, Drew listening as I vent.

It reminds me of when we were kids. Back then, she was more outspoken, unafraid to say what she felt.

But that changed after her high school sweetheart, whom we never even met, left her for someone else.

Her confidence wilted, and the Drew I knew disappeared inside herself.

Now, though, as she supports me and stands up for what she believes, I catch glimpses of the woman I know she is deep down.

When our conversation ends, Drew walks away with her head held high, leaving me alone at the table. My heart no longer pounds, my hands no longer tremble. The silence feels like a friend again. I’m not a victim. I’m a survivor. And I have a sister willing to fight for me.

Family over everything.