“It’s aboutRoseMcAllister.Andthat coffee shop she runs?Well, let’s just say it’s not the sugar-sweet picture everyone thinks.She’sthrowing a charity event, but what if it’s really about saving face after a scandal?There’sa lot people don’t know.Abouther, about her past withAcenWheeler.Doesn’tthat seem… newsworthy?”
She let the silence on the other end stretch; her own reflection caught faintly in the clinic’s darkened glass.Hersmile grew sharper.Richarddidn’t need much convincing; she could already hear the scratching of his pen in her imagination, could almost see the bold headline.
Her stomach fluttered, equal parts nerves and thrill.Thiswas better than whispers.Thiswas permanence.Printlasted.Peopleclipped articles, tucked them intoBibles, folded them into drawers, carried them like proof.
She paused, then smiled again, pushing sweetness into her voice like cream into bitter coffee.
“Oh,Ican get you records.Copiesof her old messages.I’msure someone kept them.”
It was a lie, but a beautiful one, and lies had always served her well.Truthwas messy, unpredictable.Lies, however, were art.Shecould paint them however she wanted, and people would stand back and admire the brushstrokes without ever asking to see the canvas up close.
Her thumb toyed with the edge of her phone as she leaned harder against the wall, heart thrumming.Rosehad always been the golden girl, even after being knocked down.Folksliked to root for her, to pretend her scars made her stronger.Itwas nauseating.
What they didn’t understand.Whatthey refused to understand.WasthatRose’ssurvival came atBriana’sexpense.Rose’sstrength was always built from the rubbleBrianahad been buried under.PerfectRosefrom the perfect family.WhileBrianahad struggled in poverty all her growing up years.Tryingharder than anyone else to be someone.AndRose.AlwaysRosebeating her in everything.Itsickened her to remember the years that she had pretended to beRose’sfriend to get close to everyone else.
Well, no more.
If the town wouldn’t listen to her in whispers, maybe they’d believe it in print.
She closed her eyes for a beat, inhaling the dampness of the shaded alley, letting her heartbeat slow.Asingle article could undo everythingRosehad built.Peoplewouldn’t look at her coffee shop with the same warmth anymore.They’dwalk in hesitantly, whispering behind menus, wondering if their lattes were being served with a side of shame.They’davoid her eyes at church, tilt their heads with that familiar pity, that smug satisfaction that saidwe knew she wasn’t perfect.
Briana fed on that kind of shift.Itwasn’t enough to win; she neededRoseto lose.Neededher to feel that hollow ache of being left out, looked down on, whispered about.
Her mind darted back to high school, the nights when she andRosewere inseparable, when secrets were shared on quilts inRose’sroom under a ceiling fan that clicked with every turn.Backthen,Rosehad trusted her.Backthen,Rosehad loved her like a sister.
And thenAcen.
AlwaysAcen.
Briana swallowed hard, heat rising behind her ribs.Hehad been hers first.Herhand to hold, her name whispered into the night.Butsomehow,Rosehad always been between them.Herlaugh too loud, her eyes too bright, her presence impossible to ignore.AndwhenAcenfinally chose?Whenhe finally turned away?
That wound never healed.
Every rumorBrianastarted, every whisper she nurtured, was just another stitch in the tapestry she’d been weaving.Apicture whereRosewasn’t the darling ofPickwickBendanymore.
She slipped her phone back into her purse and straightened, brushing invisible lint from her blouse.Hersmirk lingered.
This was just the beginning.
Because once words were printed, they couldn’t be taken back.
And when the town ofPickwickBendread her story,Brianaknew one thing for certain:RoseMcAllisterwouldn’t be able to walk downMainStreetwithout feeling the weight of every eye.
Exactly the wayBrianawanted it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The next morning,Rosestepped out to grab the newspaper from the rack outside the coffee shop - and froze.
There, below the fold of thePickwickGazette, was a headline in bold:
"SweetLies?LocalBarista’sPastStirringUpSmall-TownDrama"
And beneath it, a grainy photo ofRose, cropped from a festival booth five years ago, her smile wide, her hands holding two large coffees.
She flipped the page with numb fingers.
There it was—just enough truth to be dangerous, just enough speculation to light a match.
