Page 177 of Reckless Obsession

WESLEY HEIR JAKE WESLEY AND HIS LAWYER EX-HUSBAND, TRISTAN SINCLAIR, OFFICIALLY REKINDLE THEIR MARRIAGE AT WESLEY FAMILY CELEBRATION

The room seems to pull away from me. Tyler’s messages still appear across the top of the screen, one after another, but they look distant now, like they belong to someone else’s life.

I scroll.

Another paragraph sits beneath the headline.

The son of business tycoon Luke Wesley confirmed the couple’s reconciliation during the family’s private dinner celebrating the completion of their latest mall development project. Sources close to the family say the pair have decided to resume their marriage after spending two years apart. A formal announcement is expected soon.

My lungs forget what they’re supposed to do.

I stare at the screen, then at the picture, then back at the headline. My heart starts beating so violently that I can feel every fucking thud in my chest.

I stare at the photograph until Tristan’s face stops looking like Tristan’s. My thoughts crash into each other without forming anything useful: his silence, my unanswered calls, the way Tristan said he would be busy this week, Italy, the villa, the stupid private island we were supposed to have all to ourselves.

Tyler’s message appears.

Maks, you still there?

I don’t answer.

Another message from Igor follows.

Maksim, answer me.

I get up slowly from the bed. The floor feels unsteady beneath my feet, even though I know it isn’t. I take one measured breath, then another.

Breathe, Maksim.

It’s nothing.

The headline is nothing.

Jake has pulled stunts like this before. He’s an attention-starved piece of shit who treats public humiliation as a hobby. This is not the first time he has claimed he and Tristan are getting back together. Not the first time he has fed a pathetic fantasy to a reporter because he can’t accept that Tristan left him.

It’s a publicity stunt.

That’s all.

“Of course,” I mutter, beginning to pace. “Of course it is.”

My voice sounds wrong in the empty room.

“Tristan doesn’t love him anymore.” I swallow, but my throat is dry, as though I have swallowed gravel. “Tristan isn’t going back to him. Not when he’s with me. Right?”

The last word breaks apart on the way out.

I don’t know who I’m talking to.

Maybe myself. Maybe Tristan. Maybe whatever part of me is already preparing for the moment I realize I have been stupid enough to trust him. My heart is hitting so hard it hurts. Like I have been punched directly through the chest. Like my entire body has become too small to hold the panic climbing through it.

I leave the bedroom before I can spiral further.

The apartment is quiet. Too quiet. Morning light spills across the living room, clean and soft and completely wrong for the way I feel. I move toward the kitchen, my phone clenched in my hand, already forming a message I know I’ll regret sending.

Then I stop.

Someone is sitting at the dining table. For one awful second, my mind refuses to make sense of the shape.