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He hadn’t looked her up. Hadn’t asked anyone for any information about her. Had shied away from following up on what had happened to her after that last day. Instead, he’d read that initial fucked-up article in the car en route from the airport—after his security team had so unceremoniously hustled her into the other car—and had resented her. Fucking loathed her. The seething sense of betrayal had fueled his fury and he’d clung to it. Had needed it because without the betrayal, without the fury, all he had was his overwhelming grief.
He ran a search on her name and read—with increasing horror—the articles, the social media clips showing her literally fleeing from journalists, the outraged rants on his behalf calling her a psycho stalker, a bitch, an ugly whore, a greedy slut…
It went on and on, every damned—sometimes blatantly libelous—article making outrageous accusations against her.
Then, just before his ill-fated interview with Mike Holmes five days ago, more excerpts from her journal had found their way online. Divulging painfully personal details about her phobias, her anxiety, her coping mechanisms, and the therapy she needed to keep it under control.
It was hard to read, and the mocking responses to those revelations from an unsympathetic public which added #teamtrystan to every repulsive, nearly-impossible-to-watch social media clip… That they would use his name to fucking torment her sickened him. And why wouldn’t they?
Chance was right. Trystan had thrown her to the wolves. He had abandoned her. And that very abandonment had validated this cruel, relentless public haranguing. Trystan had left Iris to face this hatred and vitriol alone, without even the physical comfort and support of her family. Despite that article being the death knell to their short-lived relationship, he should’ve protected her from this. Should’ve kept a security detail on her. But he’d wanted her to hurt, wanted her to suffer. And now… faced with the proof of that torment he found himself unable to stomach the reality of it.
He opened up the original article—wanting to remind himself of what she had done, of why he’d left her exposed to all of this invective—then sucked in a deep breath and released it on a slow, controlled exhalation. He then forced himself to reread the article she’d coauthored with her friend.
A quick scan at first, like ripping off a Band-Aid, then slower and with more consideration. After the fifth time, his horror and outrage—which had intensified with each consecutive reread—had him so choked up he found it hard to breathe.
His motor functions felt sluggish, his brain foggy… and—after he once again forced himself to read those leaked excerpts from her journal—he knew exactly what to do.
He needed a moment to curb his fury, desperation and panic, before picking up his phone to call Bee. He anticipated resistance, but this was a matter of life and death and he would not be swayed from his current course of action.
“Thank you so much for this, Chance.” Iris was emotionally and physically exhausted and on the verge of tears. All of which could be heard in her quavering voice as she effusively thanked Chance while he led her into the guest room of the quaint house that he shared with a—as-yet-unknown—coworker.
“Don’t mention it. I wish you’d called me sooner,” he said, placing her suitcases beside the bed.
“It won’t be for long. Just until they lose my scent and I can sneak home.”
“Stay as long as you like. I don’t mind. Colby won’t either.”
“And your friend knows I’ll be staying, right?”
“I haven’t had the opportunity to tell her yet, but she’s not one to turn her back on someone in need.”
It was truly grating to be described as someone in need. Iris was usually ferociously independent, and she hated being reliant on relative strangers at a time like this. She’d never felt more alone…
“Are you sure?”
“Definitely. Don’t worry about it. And make yourself at home. You’ll have the house to yourself during the day. I’m on days at the moment, leave at four-thirty am, usually home after seven, unless, uh, he needs me to accompany him somewhere, or I go out with my mates. Colby leaves at seven and is home by five-thirty. She doesn’t go out too much. But she may have some friends over occasionally.”
Iris nodded politely, but doubted that she’d be here long enough to get too familiar with their patterns. She did briefly allow her mind to linger over Chance’s hours. He was still Trystan’s primary close-protection office and she wondered why Trystan would need Chance that early in the morning. He hadn’t struck her as an extreme early bird… then again, he’d practically been on vacation. No schedule, no responsibilities, and a fake little holiday romance to help him pass the time.
She shoved aside that last thought. It was getting harder and harder to keep her anger and bitterness toward him at bay. The worse things got for her, the more she found herself resenting Trystan. She’d known her life would change once her relationship with him became public knowledge, but she would’ve been able to handle anything with him by her side. Without his support, she was left with nothing but chaos and loneliness. She missed her quiet old life, missed being anonymous, missed spending time with her parents and brother. God, she even missed lending a hand at their catering events a couple of times a month.
But right now, she was stuck in this colorless, featureless purgatory, with no end in sight. An easy target for some truly unhinged and frightening people to mock and threaten. Her anxiety levels were through the roof. She was hypervigilant, paranoid and jumping at her own shadow. She’d already had several panic attacks—one so severe it had actually felt like she was dying.
“Iris?” Chance’s voice interrupted her churning thoughts, thankfully dragging her back into the present. He was still standing beside her luggage, his hands on his hips as his concerned green gaze ran over her face. “You okay?”
“I’m—yes—I’m fine.” Her voice was weak and scratchy and she sounded far from fine, but he nodded, taking her words at face value.
“I have to go. I’m on duty this morning.”
“Oh?” Her eyes drifted to the quaint cuckoo clock on the wall—everything about this room was a little twee, not at all what she’d expected from Chance’s home—it was a little after eight in the morning. He’d collected her from her flat at seven-thirty, and strong-armed their way through the ever-present crowd of reporters already lurking outside her building. There were always a few milling about on the sidewalk, no matter what the hour. One could almost admire their dedication.
“A bit of a late start for you this morning then, isn’t it?” she observed, not wanting to look like she was fishing for information.
Chance made a noncommittal sound before lifting his big shoulders. “I asked the night guy, Caleb, to stay a few hours longer so that I could help you move. But he’ll be pissed if I don’t relieve him soon.”
“Yes, of course. You should go. I’ll be fine.”
“Right. See you this evening then.” He strode toward the bedroom door, throwing words back over his shoulder on his way out. “The fridge and pantry are fully stocked. Help yourself. But stay well away from the chocolate chip ice cream, and—if you value your life—do not touch any Jaffa cakes or custard creams you may find lurking in the pantry. Colby has a sweet tooth and she can be irrationally mean if any of her snacks disappear.”
