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With trembling hands, I logged into my account and deleted the malicious post exposing my innermost thoughts. Then, for good measure, I set my entire blog to private.
It was the only thing I could do. A quick search showed the cruel post had already been screenshotted, replicated, and shared across social media.
It was too little too late. The damage had already been done.
Shame, humiliation, and regret flooded through me.
And then came the wave of guilt, more crushing than all the rest. Gabriel had opened up to me, trusted me, cared for me. And I'd repaid that trust by writing petty, judgmental things that Maxim had broadcasted to the world.
That had to be what was happening now.
He knew.
I tapped on the glass at Harold.
Gabriel wasn’t going to let me in.
I'd done the absolute worst thing I could to him. I’d violated his privacy as completely as Maxim had violated mine. I wrote cruel things about him when we first met. I wrote private details about his family.
Of course his gut reaction was to shut me out.
Tears spilled down my cheeks. I swiped them away and tried to hold myself together. I could be wrong. But even if he hadn’t seen it yet, when he did, he’d be devastated.
My only hope was that he’d let me in so I could explain.
When Harold opened the door and I saw the pitying look on his face, hopelessness washed over me instead of shock.
"He's not letting me in," I whispered.
“No,” Harold said.
Gabriel's gates were closed, and my heart was crushed beneath them.
THIRTY-EIGHT
GABRIEL
The days after Layana’s betrayal blurred together in a haze of shock and anguish. Jasper sent a message offering whatever support I needed. I hadn’t yet responded.
News outlets swarmed, looking to expose weakness, ravenous for their pound of flesh. Running was impossible without being ambushed by the paparazzi. I otherwise retreated into my normal routines, unable to concentrate on anything but the gaping wound Layana had torn open.
My phone buzzed and chimed incessantly with her calls and texts. At first they came in a desperate flood—tearful voicemails begging me to let her explain, texts pleading for another chance, handwritten letters delivered to my office swearing the entire situation was a terrible mistake.
That first night, I lay awake, tormented by the constant barrage.
Layana: Please pick up. I need to explain
Layana: This isn’t what it looks like
Layana: Gabriel, please. Give me a chance. It was a horrible mistake.
Layana: Just talk to me. Let me fix this
Layana: I never meant to hurt you
Layana: Don’t do this
I ignored it all,too ravaged and raw to face her. But I couldn’t bring myself to block her number, either. Some masochistic part of me was unwilling to sever that connection.
