Page 24 of Once Upon A Second Chance (Once Upon A Time…To Happily Ever After #2)

Chapter Twenty

Penny

The video plays on my phone screen, grainy and low-lit, like it was recorded from a distance—or maybe deliberately made to look that way.

I watch as Richard’s voice cuts through the crackling audio.

“You’re cruel,” Rebecca whispers, her voice pitched high with fake tears, the perfect wounded performance.

There’s a pause—long enough to make you lean in.

Then Richard’s voice, sharp and cold: “And you were always a stupid bitch.”

I flinch, thumb pausing the video automatically.

The words hang in the air like a bad smell.

Something about it sets my teeth on edge immediately.

The first part—the "you're cruel"—sounds natural. Real.

But the last sentence... there's something wrong about it. Like it’s been tacked on. The tone is a little too flat, the rhythm just a hair too stiff.

If you weren’t paying attention—or if you wanted to believe the worst—you might swallow it whole without a second thought.

But I know Richard.

I know the man who jumped into a river for a stranger’s kid without blinking.

The man who stood on my porch shaking with fear and still told his parents he loved me. The man who looks at me like I’m not something to endure, but something to choose.

And whatever this video is, it’s not him.

Still, knowing that doesn’t stop the sick feeling from curling in my gut as I scroll through the comments.

Some people are skeptical, throwing around words like “deep fake” and “AI clone,” and a few are even defending him outright.

But plenty of others—enough to matter—are nodding along, adding their own whispered accusations to the bonfire. I see phrases like "red flags" and "trust women" thrown around so casually it makes my blood boil.

The worst part is that some people don’t even seem to care whether it’s real or fake. They just like the drama. They just like having someone to tear down.

I toss my phone onto the couch beside me, pacing the room as if I can outrun the fury building in my chest. Bijou watches from her dog bed, her head tilted, sensing the storm brewing under my skin.

I can’t let her get away with this.

I won’t.

The phone buzzes again, a sharp jolt in the too-quiet room.

I snatch it up, hoping for something—anything—to ground me.

It’s Lena.

A text: Anything new on Rebecca yet?

I don’t even hesitate before typing back: Take a look at this video. It has Rebecca’s name written all over it.

I spend the next five minutes pacing, heart hammering against my ribs, staring out the window even though there’s nothing out there but the same sleepy street, the same dandelions sprouting along the cracks in the sidewalk.

I half expect Richard’s truck to come barreling around the corner, for him to knock on my door and tell me he’ll handle it. That we’ll handle it.

But this isn’t a problem he can fix alone.

This one’s mine too.

By the time Lena storms through my front door, laptop bag slung over her shoulder and a look of pure bloodthirsty delight on her face, I’m half ready to drive to Rebecca Churchill’s house and burn it down myself.

"You found something?" I ask the second she’s inside.

Lena doesn’t answer right away. She just smirks like a woman holding four aces at a crooked poker table and flings herself into the armchair across from me. She flips open her laptop with a flourish and taps a few keys.

"Oh," she says, eyes glittering, "I didn’t just find something. I hit the mother lode."

She spins the laptop toward me, and I lean in, heart pounding.

Screenshots. Email chains. An anonymous tip sent to Lena’s burner email. A series of leaked DMs between Rebecca and a shady PR firm specializing in "reputation management"—aka, online smear campaigns.

Rebecca hadn’t just been passive-aggressively posting gossip.

It would appear that she’s paid someone to fabricate a deep fake audio clip.

There’s even a receipt: a wire transfer to a digital media company in New Jersey specializing in AI voice synthesis.

I sit back, stunned, the magnitude of it sinking in.

It’s not just petty anymore.

It’s criminal.

Lena closes the laptop slowly, savoring the moment like a fine glass of wine. “So," she says brightly. "You want to post it, or should I?”

For a heartbeat, I don’t say anything. The righteous fury crackles under my skin like dry grass catching fire. Not the helpless, directionless anger of earlier—but something sharper. Focused. Alive.

I meet her eyes and grin, wide and dangerous.

"Let’s post this shit," I say, voice low and steady, "and watch her burn."

Lena grins back like she’s been waiting all her life to hear me say it.

She starts typing.

And for the first time in days, I feel like we’re not just surviving this.

We’re getting ahead of this now—and we will own the narrative.

The whole town is on fire by the time I get to work.

Not literally, though judging by the frantic buzz around the clinic, it wouldn’t surprise me if someone had to pull Darlene off the town Facebook group before she started swinging.

The front desk is buzzing louder than the phones. Patients who usually sit quietly flipping through old magazines are whispering behind cupped hands, glancing up from their phones with looks of gleeful disbelief.

Even the nurses are barely pretending to work. Lena walks past me with a stack of charts tucked under one arm and a sly, satisfied grin like she’s carrying live ammunition.

I catch snippets of conversation floating through the hallway as I make my way to my next appointment.

"—turns out she was running one of those 'sell this miracle tea and earn a Lexus' scams— "

"—and did you see the bankruptcy filings? Straight-up fraud— "

"—poor Dr. Hogan, can you imagine being married to that—?"

I duck into my patient’s room, smiling brightly like the building isn’t buzzing like a kicked beehive.

Mr. Davidson, a regular of mine recovering from a torn ACL, is grinning like Christmas came early. "Heard you and Dr. Hogan took down the Queen Bee herself," he says as I help him set up on the therapy bike.

"I didn’t do anything but make coffee and mind my business," I say smoothly, ignoring the way my ears burn. "Now let’s focus on getting you back to the golf course, okay?"

We finish the session without any more gossip, but I can feel it clinging to the air around me—the electric, triumphant sense that the town isn’t just gossiping about Richard anymore.

They’re rallying behind him.

Behind us.

As Mr. Davidson leaves, I hand him a sheet illustrating a few stretches to do at home and walk him toward the door. He gives me a conspiratorial wink. “Good job protecting your man, Penny.”

I laugh under my breath and shake my head, about to turn back toward the nurse's station when a shadow falls across the hallway.

I glance up.

Richard.

He’s standing there in his scrubs, hands tucked into his pockets, watching me like he’s seeing something he never thought he’d get to have.

His hair’s a little messy, like he ran a hand through it one too many times, and his mouth tips into a half-smile when our eyes meet.

For a second, everything else—the buzz, the stares, the chaos—falls away.

Without a word, he crosses the space between us, pulls one hand free from his pocket, and cups the back of my neck gently.

And then he kisses me.

Right there, in the middle of the clinic hallway, where anyone could see.

The kiss is firm and certain, no hesitation, no fear. He kisses me like it’s not a risk, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to love me out loud.

I hear a few wolf whistles somewhere down the hall. Someone claps—probably Jenkins, the retired old surgeon who thinks everything is a soap opera—and Lena calls out, "Finally!"

I can’t help it—I laugh against Richard’s mouth, pulling back just enough to see the crinkle of happiness around his eyes.

"You sure you want to be seen with me?" I tease, voice low so only he can hear.

He brushes his thumb across my cheek, thumb slow and reverent. "I’m pretty sure I want to spend the rest of my life being seen with you."

There’s a whoop from one of the nurses—Patel, I think—and another voice calls out, "Get it, Penny!"

Richard grins and leans his forehead against mine. "I guess we’re a package deal now."

"Guess so," I whisper back, heart pounding, not from fear this time, but from something steadier. Something stronger.

We stand there for a beat longer, soaking it in, before Lena breezes by with an entirely too-innocent smile.

“Penny, when you get a minute, you might want to check the latest posts," she says sweetly. "Let’s just say... Queen Churchill’s pyramid is collapsing.”

Richard chuckles against my hair, pulling me in tighter for a second before letting me go reluctantly.

As he heads back toward the surgical wing, patients and staff alike nod and smile at him—at us. Like we’ve weathered the worst of it and come out the other side not just intact, but stronger.

I watch him go, warmth spreading through my chest, and think that maybe, just maybe, Mount Juliet is starting to feel like home for both of us.

And Rebecca?

She’s finally reaping exactly what she sowed.

The Bachelor is on the TV, but neither of us is really watching.

Lena and I are sprawled across my couch, a pile of snack bowls scattered around us—popcorn, chips, a half-empty box of cookies—and two glasses of wine resting precariously on the coffee table. Bijou’s wedged herself between us like she’s the guest of honor, her head resting heavily on my thigh.

The real entertainment isn't the desperate contestants fighting over a mediocre man in a tux.

It’s the steady stream of phone notifications lighting up our phones every few seconds.

Rebecca’s downfall is unfolding in real time.

First came the local news article: Prominent New York Society Woman Accused of Fraudulent Business Practices. Then the social media posts from angry "investors," receipts attached, timelines of all the money that vanished into thin air.

Screenshots of her ties to not one, but three, pyramid schemes. Bankruptcy filings. Hushed rumors that she'd skipped out of town at dawn, leaving a trail of unpaid debts and burned bridges.

The cherry on top? A blurry photo someone caught of her at the airport in New York with an overstuffed suitcase and sunglasses big enough to hide half her face.

“She ran after she got back home,” Lena says around a mouthful of popcorn, scrolling through the latest post gleefully. “Full-on fled. Not even a ‘no comment,’ just poof—Churchill out.”

“Coward,” I say, grinning into my wine glass.

“Fraudulent coward,” Lena corrects.

Bijou thumps her tail against the cushions, apparently in full agreement.

We dissolve into laughter, the kind that makes your stomach ache, the kind that feels like letting out a breath you’ve been holding for months.

It’s not just about Rebecca anymore.

It’s the knowledge that this time, when the storm came, I didn’t just survive it.

I fought back.

We fought back.

After the laughter fades into a comfortable hum, I lean my head against Lena’s shoulder, feeling the warmth and the weight of the moment settle around us.

“Thanks,” I say quietly. “For having my back. For... all of it.”

Lena snorts like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. "You kidding? You think I was gonna let that witch burn your house down and just sit back with a glass of lemonade?"

I laugh again, but my throat tightens a little with something deeper, something heavier.

“No, really,” I say, nudging her. “You didn’t have to dive in like you did. But you did. You always do.”

Lena sets her phone down, looking at me with that rare, serious expression she usually reserves for telling off doctors who don’t wash their hands properly.

"You’re my person, Penny," she says simply. "You get one or two people in your life you go full ride-or-die for. You’re mine."

I don’t know if it’s the wine or the relief or just everything catching up to me at once, but my eyes sting.

Before I can say something emotional and embarrassing, Bijou pops up between us, tail wagging wildly, and licks both of our faces enthusiastically.

“Ugh, dog breath!” Lena shrieks, laughing and trying to fend her off.

I just sit there laughing so hard I nearly spill my wine, wiping slobber off my cheek with the sleeve of my sweatshirt.

Bijou settles back down proudly, as if to say you’re welcome.

My phone buzzes again, and I grab it, expecting another news alert.

Instead, it’s Richard.

Thank you. For fighting for me. For believing in me. I love you, Penny. Tell Lena she’s a damn superhero too.

I bite my lip, smiling so wide my face hurts.

I show the message to Lena, who pumps her fist like she just won the Super Bowl. “Damn straight I am!”

I text Richard back quickly: We love you too. And don’t worry—Lena’s already demanding a statue in her honor.

He replies with a string of laughing emojis and a heart.

Lena reclaims her spot beside me, tossing a few popcorn kernels onto Bijou’s head, and we settle in to watch the Bachelor finally hand out his rose to someone who probably deserves better.

Outside, the world is still messy, still complicated.

But here, in this room, it’s simple.

Safe.

Ours.