“Colby—”
“No fake interviews. No staged paparazzi walks. No pretending I’m dating a woman I met twelve hours ago.”
Technically not true.
I met Sadie once years ago at a charity event in Frostholm.
Briefly.
She’d catered desserts for the fundraiser.
I remember because she’d looked directly at me when I thanked her instead of staring at me like I was a headline wearing skates.
At the time, I’d found that weirdly refreshing.
Last night she looked exactly the same. Tired eyes. Pretty smile. Protective instincts sharp enough to cut glass.
And when I saw Jillie’s sad face…
Something inside me reacted before my brain got involved.
“She’s not some random woman,” Maddie says carefully. “She owns a bakery in your hometown. The internet already loves her.”
I reopen social media against my better judgment.
Mistake.
Huge mistake.
The comments get uglier the farther I scroll.
Small-town girls always know how to trap rich athletes.
Another gold digger looking for fifteen minutes.
That bakery probably staged this.
I feel my jaw tighten.
Then I see a paparazzi photo taken outside Sweet Seasons early this morning.
Sadie stands near the bakery door in a heavy coat; one arm wrapped protectively around Jillie while cameras crowd too close.
Jillie is crying.
The sight hits me harder than it should.
Way harder.
“She didn’t ask for this,” I say quietly.
Maddie pauses.
“No,” she admits. “She didn’t.”
I zoom into the image before I can stop myself.
Sadie’s expression isn’t fame hungry.
