My heartbeat picks up when I hit pieces that aren’t sports news. This is where it stops being messy and scandalous and starts being rotten. Really fucking rotten.
I read slower as my brows draw together. Articles begin to pop up that feel different, each one stranger than the last. Something shifts in my chest — a wrongness you feel before you fully understand it. My thumb hesitates over the trackpad on the headline: Only One Heir Remains: Zed Mercer’s Tragic Ascension to Family Fortune. Then another: Questions Linger Over Sole Heir’s Inheritance.
It’s the kind of thing you don’t find unless you’re already looking for what you don’t want to see.
My pulse spikes as I click through. At first, nothing makes sense. My eyes move, but my brain lags, like it’s bracing. The writing is careful; every sentence hedged, every claim softened. No one names what happened.
There are photos on the side, the sort you’d miss if you were skimming. I click one and my vision blurs as recognition hits. My breath pulls sharp through my nose, involuntary. My stomach drops cold and heavy, and my hand tightens on the laptop’s edge.
Jesus.
I don’t linger, but I don’t look away fast enough either. The image burns into the back of my skull: theangle, the stillness, the way it looks when something irreversible has already happened.
My heart hammers. This isn’t messy. This isn’t reckless. This isn’t a kid who lost control.
My throat goes tight as I keep reading, slowing down, hoping the words will rearrange themselves into something less horrifying. They don’t. I feel like the biggest idiot for asking Zed if his little brother still plays.
I snap the laptop shut so hard it makes a sharp, final sound in the quiet and toss it onto the couch. I stare straight ahead at the space where the world made sense five minutes ago. My hands come up on instinct, rubbing my face, dragging down hard.
Fuck.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, palms pressing into my eyes as if pushing harder could erase it.
It can’t.
The image is still there, the implication standing in plain sight. My voice comes out low, hoarse, barely there.
“Oh my fucking God, Zed.”
Chapter nineteen
~JESSICA~
The sun is offensively bright this morning. It pours over everything, sparkling on the pool and the glass pitcher of orange juice on the table in front of me. It glints off the rippling water and makes the breakfast Dom prepared even more camera-perfect: fresh fruit, toast, jam, eggs, bacon.
Maybe it’s Dom’s way of trying to apologize for what he did to my body last night with carbs and protein.
I pick up a piece of toast and take a bite, still wearing my sleep shorts and tank top.
My phone goes off again, loud against the mahogany tabletop. Another notification—one of ahundred this morning. I flip it over and put it on silent, making a note to turn off my Instagram notifications.
Ever since this fake-relationship stunt began, my phone’s been blowing up. People I haven’t spoken to in years pop out of the woodwork with emojis and exclamation points.
But is this thing still fake? I’m no expert, but fake relationships don’t usually end with you pressed against a tiled wall, getting railed under a showerhead while your heart claws its way up your throat.
I nibble another bite, heat crawling up my neck. My face feels like it’s been blushing since last night and hasn’t stopped. I take a gulp of juice, trying to get a grip, but my brain won’t stop whispering questions I hate.
Is there an expiration date on this? What happens when I stop being conveniently helpful for PR? When do I lose him?
I clench my jaw, frustrated with myself. Why do I always expect the worst, daring the universe to prove me right? I’m not letting my brain do this.
The glass door slides open behind me, signaling Dom’s return. He’s shirtless, carrying a plate of sliced avocado. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, the deep cut of his V-line disappearing past the waistband. His tattooed chest is broad and tanned, his abs shifting with each step. The sunlight hits his face and he squints, making his eyes even sharper.
When he walks past me, he drags a hand through my hair, a slow caress that makes me bite back a smile. He sets the plate down across from me and sinks into his chair, his large frame swallowing the backrest.
The thought that’s been eating at me slithers in again.
This is what women want. This exact man.
