e Swee

ersona. He hadn't just learned a lesson; he had learned it from me. The cold, clinical way he spoke, as if dissecting

uckles turned white. The glass felt like it might shatter in my hand. He had just publicly branded "Aria" as a fra

to me." And now, he was saying it was all a fake. A lie. He meant every word. My heart, which had been racing, seeme

rced myself to lower my hand, to release the glass, to unclench my fists. I couldn't let him see me break. Not now, after all these years of b

angerously low, barely a whisper. "Perhaps there were reasons. Misunderstandings. Is it tru

ir?," he scoffed, taking a sip. "Fairness is a luxury not afforded to those who build their entire interactions on lies. When someone acti

precisely at the heart of my guilt. I had no defense. He was right. I

, but no less cutting, "you've had personal experience with such 'misunderstandings,' Coralie? Perhaps you've been on the

d. He was getting too close. He couldn't know. He couldn't. I plastered a professional smile on my face

countless stories of all kinds. My role is to observe, to report. Not to partici

about an upcoming match. The tension in the air slowly dissipated, replaced by the polite, strained chatter of t

"Emmett," I said, holding out my phone. "For work purposes, could I get your cont

and sent me his details with a quick tap. "I rarely check messaging apps," he stated, his eyes meeting mine for a bri

handle, which would have been easier for casual messaging. He wanted to keep me at a distance. As I stood there, a terrible curiosity gnawed at

was attractive, competent, her smile radiant. They looked happy. More than happy. They looked deeply connecte

ys by his side. Their interactions had seemed professionally close, but this photo... this was something else entirely. S

y feeling thin. My mind raced, piecing together fragments of information. She was always with him. She was fi

ces muffled. I quickly slipped my phone into my

d. "Bridgett practically lived at his place for a week, ma

nightstand. It was an old photo, a girl. I wondered who it

photos I had sent him, the ones I had used as "Aria." No, it couldn't be. He hated Aria. He

voice softening. "Bridgett's good for him. He's f

ned away, walking quickly towards my car, the phantom ache in my chest a constant remin

d photo by his bed? And why did the question feel like it

have to wait long. Because that p