Page 110 of Unleashed By Eden

That disgusting headline.

His name, my images, attached to a story about him overdosing when he didn’t.

What if he’s already seen it?

What if someone showed him and he thinks—

He thinks I did this.

That I sold him out.

That this job, this relationship, was all some elaborate revenge arc, just like Chloe said.

My body convulses again with a useless dry heave. I choke, wipe my mouth with the bottom of my T-shirt, and stagger away from the bin.

I force my legs toward the private lounge.

Two airport security guards stand outside the frosted-glass doors, arms folded. Megan is next to them, pale and rigid, phone clenched in her fist.

My stomach caves in on itself.

I move closer, throat burning from the residual bile. “You saw it?”

The expression on her face guts me. A mix of anger, pity, and something worse—disappointment.

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “I saw it.”

My knees almost give out.

She glances at the guards, then back at me. “Head office called. They want you off the tour.”

My mouth dries up. “I’m fired?”

“I don’t know what they’re calling it.” She rubs her temple. “All I know is Chris is furious, and he’s already booked you on a commercial flight back to Sydney. It started boarding”—she checks her watch—“five minutes ago.”

“No.” It comes out hoarse. “No, I’m not leaving. I didn’t do this, Megan.”

“I’m not saying you did,” she says quickly, stepping closer, dropping her voice. “I like you, Vi. You know I do. But you can’t be here right now. This is a PR nightmare—for Carter, Pulse, PrimeTime+, for everyone. Go home. Let the lawyers and suits untangle it.”

“Lawyers,” I repeat numbly, my mind going a mile a minute. “Because of copyright?”

She nods. “PrimeTime+ owns everything you shoot under this contract. They didn’t sign off on a third-rate tabloid dropping an ‘exclusive’ using our material. And that’s before we even get into consent of the images or privacy.”

“I didn’t sell them.” Every word grinds over my teeth. “I would never sell them.”

“But your name is on the credit line. And Vi . . .” She swallows. “There are photos of you, too. Of you and Carter.”

My vision wavers.

“What?” My voice shreds. “No. I didn’t—I only saw—” My brain stutters, trying to scroll back. “I only saw the ones of him.”

“They’re online,” she says gently. “I get it. But trust me. It’s worse than you think.”

The world goes grainy. My stomach lurches violently again, and I double over, grabbing my knees to steady myself.

“Why didn’t you tell me about you and Carter?” There’s a cool edge to her voice now, the sympathy facade slipping. But all I can do is shake my head. I don’t have space for her feelings, or her judgment.

“What if he thinks . . . ?” I can’t even finish the sentence.