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It wasn’t just a lie.

Just a betrayal.

It was proof.

Proof that every cynical, hard-edged thing I’d ever said was right. That there was always an angle, a motive, always something hidden beneath the surface pulling at the strings.

No exceptions.

Not for me. Not for her. Not for anyone.

My chest tightened, something twisting there.

I should have felt vindicated.

That was what this was, wasn’t it?

Validation.

Confirmation.

I’d been right all along.

So why did it feel like I’d lost something?

Why was there a cracked-open sensation in my chest?

I drove through the day and night, not stopping once. But there was no outrunning it.

No matter how far I went, it would be right there.

In my mind.

In the ache beneath my ribs.

In my apartment where she’d spent an afternoon. At the radio station where I’d started to fall for her.

The fallout there was going to be indescribable. The sideways glances and the prying questions would be intolerable.

Did I even want to go back?

Could I stomach the idea of putting on those headphones, leaning into that mic, and trying to pretend that nothing had changed?

Everything had.

And what of this phenomenon? This rabid fanbase that were making videos online and speculating about Madison’s real identity from the beginning.

How long until they found out who Maggie was? How we were connected?

Would they assume it was all for show, that none of it was real?

Did it even matter?

My hands gripped the steering wheel as the city blurred past in streaks of light and shadow.

Of course it mattered.

To the network, the audience, the thousands of strangers out there dissecting it online like it was just another piece of entertainment to consume.