Page 46 of I Wish I Would’ve Warned You (Forbidden Wishes #3)

EMILY

“ C an you believe the gall of this man?” the blonde anchor sneers from the flatscreen. Her perfectly curled hair doesn’t move as she gestures emphatically. “Lecturing us all on the importance of family values, bragging about how his blended family is a model for the nation?—”

“Hold on, Kelly,” her cohost interrupts. He’s wearing a pinstriped suit and a smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Do you think there’s a chance he didn’t know? That maybe the kids had their own thing going on without his knowledge?”

“Oh, they definitely had more than one thing going on,” she fires back with a roll of her eyes.

“But okay, James, let’s play devil’s advocate.

Let’s say he had no idea his son was sleeping with his stepdaughter—under his own roof.

Is that really the kind of man we want speaking at our town hall? Leading book clubs on moral integrity?”

“Point taken,” James says smoothly, turning to the camera. “Let’s check in with Amanda, who’s live in The Square with public reactions to the news.”

The broadcast cuts to a reporter standing in front of a massive digital billboard looping Aidan Dawson’s book promo—his face still smug, still untouchable.

Below it, a crowd.

Real people. Furious voices.

“Disgusting.”

“Can’t believe this is happening here.”

“How did the parents not know?”

“When is he suspending his show?”

I can’t breathe.

Tears slip down my cheeks before I even realize I’ve started crying. The remote sits uselessly in my lap, but I don’t reach for it. I should turn it off. Should stop listening to the headlines dissecting my life like it’s entertainment.

But I can’t look away.

It’s like watching a car crash I caused. One I tried to swerve around, but couldn’t. One I never walked away from.

This was supposed to blow over quietly. Fade into the background like every other scandal. But now it’s on every screen, in every living room. Now strangers say my name like a punchline, like a warning.

And worst of all, there’s no way to correct the story without making it worse.

I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders and stare at the screen, heart pounding, face hot with shame. Every second feels like an hour. Every word like a slap.

I should be angry.

But all I feel is exposed.