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I press on, desperate to make them understand. “That guy wasn't just a fan. He was probably the paparazzo who snapped those pics.”
“Don't listen to him, Scar,” Daniel interrupts, stepping between us. “He's just trying to manipulate you.”
I see the doubt lingering in Scarlett's eyes, but she's shrinking behind Daniel. It's like watching a wall being built between us, brick by brick, and Daniel's the one laying the mortar.
I reach out to bridge the gap between us. “Scar,” I start, my voice hoarse. “This isn't?—”
But before I can finish, Daniel tucks Scarlett behind him, his body a shield. The message is clear- you're not getting near her.
I recognize his anger for what it is—it's rooted in his love and fierce protectiveness of Scarlett. If our positions were reversed, wouldn't I do the same?
The realization doesn't make it hurt any less.
“Scarlett,” I croak, my weak voice sounding foreign.
“Don't you dare speak to her,” Daniel growls, his voice low and dangerous. “You've done enough damage.”
My gaze darts between him and Scarlett. Years of our friendship and all the trust we've built are crumbling before my eyes.
I'm drowning, gasping for air in a sea of misunderstanding. How did we get here? Moments ago, Scarlett and I were laughing, sharing secrets, and falling deeper into whatever this is between us. And now? Now I'm the villain in their story.
I can't lose them both over these vicious lies.
I open my mouth to try again, but Daniel is already turning away, his shoulders rigid. “You should go, Jett. Now.”
The words die in my throat. I swallow hard, tasting blood and shame. No explanation I give right now will change that.
With a deep breath, I shove past Daniel, and stride toward my car—his car—my wedding gift to him, my mind racing.
As I slide into the driver's seat, I catch a glimpse of them in the rearview mirror. Daniel, his arm protectively around Scarlett's shoulders. Scarlett, her face a mask of confusion and hurt. The image burns itself into my memory, fueling my determination to make this right.
As I start the engine, their gazes burn into me—Daniel's angry, Scarlett's bewildered. For a moment, I see a flicker of something—doubt? Hope? Whatever it is, it's gone in an instant, replaced by a guarded wariness.
The heartbreaking image sears itself into my mind as I pull away, the tires squealing in protest.
My mind races, formulating a plan. I know who to call, who to pressure to make this right. It isn't about clearing my name anymore. It's about protecting Scarlett from scandal and salvaging my friendship with Daniel.
I know exactly who to contact. My fingers fly over the phone screen, muscle memory dialing numbers I'd sworn I'd never use. It's amazing what you can do when your back's against the wall.
The news editor—that prick—the sleaziest man in the business answers gruffly. “Mitch Adams.”
“Jett Silver.” I cut straight to the chase, not bothering with pleasantries. “I need everything you've got on the Heather story. And I mean everything.”
There's a pause, then a chuckle. “That'll cost you.”
I grit my teeth. “Name your price.”
He names a figure that would make most people choke. To me, it's pocket change. “You've got a deal.”
As I hang up, a wave of exhaustion washes over me. This isn't how I wanted to spend the day before my best friend's wedding. I should be helping with last-minute preparations, joking around with Daniel, and stealing moments with Scarlett.
Instead, I'm alone in my car, desperately trying to undo a mess I didn't even create.
A couple of hours and a small fortune later, my phone pings. It’s the evidence I need—a video file from Mitch.
My hands shake as I click play. Heather's face fills the screen, her eyes puffy from crying.
“I'm sorry,” she sniffles. “There was no baby.”
