Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 52663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
“If you were in my shoes, you would’ve dumped him too, right?”
She blinks. “Not a chance in hell.”
“Why not?”
“Because despite the ‘friends’ you’ve met of mine, I’ve been a loner all my life, and I’m used to people not liking me.” She shrugs. “So I wouldn’t waste time trying to win their approval. Especially not when I already had something real.”
“Why didn’t you say this before?”
“Because deep down, you’ve always wanted to fit in.”
“That’s not true.”
“Of course it is,” she says gently. “You didn’t like moving all the time, but you didn’t fight it either—because you never had real friends to leave behind. And now that you finally have something, you’re scared of losing it because of what people think.”
“That has nothing to do with—”
“It has everything to do with it.” Her voice cuts through mine. “You ended things with Cole because you were scared. Even after the truth came out and people moved on, you still let fear win. But him?” She smiles sadly. “Cole didn’t give two fucks, and you know it.”
She’s right.
And what hurts more is that she forgave me.
After everything fell apart, I sat on her floor and told her everything. I apologized for not being honest sooner—told her I’d kept my feelings for Cole hidden because I didn’t want to hurt her. I begged her to forgive me.
Surprisingly, it didn’t take much.
Maybe it had something to do with the new love in her life.
Or maybe Taylor just knew better than anyone how rare something real really is.
Her phone chimes with a loud alarm, breaking the tension. “Okay! Back to me time.” She grins. “Help me find my reception dress, please.”
Later that night…
Taylor
Promise you won’t hate me if I tell you something.
I will. Don’t tell me.
Eh. I’ll risk it.
Cole’s going to be on Artist Spotlight tonight at 11 p.m. You’re welcome.
I don’t bother replying.
Instead, I set down my notebook and pour myself a glass of wine, heart already stammering. I have a full hour before it airs, but I refuse to miss a single second.
When the show begins, he steps onto the stage in ash-blue jeans and a white V-neck shirt. His hair’s a little longer, his eyes a little sharper. The crowd roars. The camera pans across rows of women in the front—some smiling, others screaming his name.
The host leans forward. “For those at home who may not know your work, where would you suggest they start?”
“The Lost Moments Collection,” he says. “It’s being released at midnight, so you should definitely start there.”
The screen fades into a gallery space.
The words “The Lost Moments Collection” appear, followed by a slideshow of his work.
It’s us.
Him and me in a pool. In a garden. Chasing each other through a gallery in slow motion.
Moments we never got to live.
Dreams we painted in stolen hours.
Memories we never had—but somehow, he captured them anyway.
Each frame feels like a breath I never took.
A confession I never gave.
A promise I never kept.
And just when I think I might survive this—
She walks onstage.
A blonde in heels and an easy smile. She loops her hand through his, and he leans in to kiss her cheek. The crowd cheers.
But all I hear is silence.
My wine glass is still in my hand, full and untouched.
My cheeks are wet, and I don’t remember crying.
When the credits roll, I don’t turn off the television.
I just sit there.
Heart splitting in my chest.
Watching a blank screen, refusing to blink.
He’s moved on.
And I have no one to blame but myself.
48
COLE
My father is facing six new federal charges—serious ones that could finally put him behind bars.
Not just the DUI.
Fraud. Obstruction. Tax evasion. Things that were buried under hush money and campaign favors until recently. Things I always suspected but could never prove.
Part of me wonders if he’ll survive in prison. If he’ll manage without tailored suits, private jets, and five-star dinners served on demand.
The other part of me—the louder, colder part—thinks he’s getting exactly what he deserves.
I unlock the front door of my gallery and step into the dark, preparing for another week of sold-out shows. My phone buzzes with RSVP updates and a waiting list that’s somehow still growing.
But when I flick on the lights, the devil himself is sitting on my main sofa.
“If you hurry and leave, I won’t call the police and have you arrested for breaking and entering,” I say, my voice flat.
“I need to talk to you before I have to prepare for trial.”
“They have phones in prison,” I reply, setting down my bag. “Try not to use all three hundred of your monthly minutes on pointless calls.”
“Any other advice?” he asks.
“Yeah. Keep to yourself. Don’t pull any of your manipulative bullshit in there. Your new roommates are way out of your league.”
He almost smiles. “I’ll remember that. Thank you.”
“You can leave the same way you came in.” I walk toward the back wall, ready to start re-centering frames.