Page 176 of Reckless Obsession

Do you think he’s still annoyed because of the Dante stuff?

I don’t know, maybe? Although we resolved it.

I even have Dante blocked right now.

No matter what it is, you don’t deserve to be ignored, Maksim. Busy people can still send a text.

Even your scary man in expensive suits.

My throat tightens.

I hate that Tyler is right. I hate even more that a part of me has been trying to excuse Tristan before Tristan has even given me an explanation.

I’m supposed to leave for Italy tonight, and he leaves tomorrow.

What if he doesn’t show up?

The message sends, and I immediately regret it because seeing the thought written out makes it real in a way I do not want it to be.

Then he’ll have to deal with me.

A quiet, shaky laugh slips out of me.

That is not comforting.

You’re five foot nothing and dramatic.

I’m waiting for his reply when an Instagram notification slides across the top of my screen.

A message from Igor.

What the fuck is this? Is it real?

I don’t know why.

Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s the part of me that has been pacing circles around Tristan’s silence for the last four days, collecting every tiny inconsistency and stacking them somewhere in the back of my mind, waiting for something terrible to finally give them meaning.

For one stupid second, I tell myself it’s nothing. A meme. Screenshots from one of Igor’s chaotic group chats. A video of someone fighting, a car wreck, some celebrity scandal he thinks I need to witness immediately.

Anything except the thing my body already seems to know it is.

I open the message, and my thumb hovers over the link he sent for a few seconds before I tap. The page loads slowly, which feels cruel. The image appears first, blurry for half a second before it sharpens.

And for a moment, I don’t understand what I’m looking at.

Tristan is standing beside Jake.

They’re dressed for the Wesleys’ celebration, Tristan in a perfectly tailored black suit, Jake in dark blue. Both are caught in the bright flash of a camera, and Jake is smiling as if he has every reason in the world to be.

His hand rests at the small of Tristan’s back.

Like he belongs there.

Like he has any fucking right.

Tristan’s face is unreadable and composed. Closed off behind that same expression he wears when he’s shut every door inside himself and left me standing outside, trying to guess what the hell he’s thinking.

The headline beneath the photograph is polished and cruel.