Page 76 of It's Not All Fake

Blood rushes to my cheeks, and I feel the urge to escape. “Um, uh—” I stammer, words failing me.

“I just don’t get it,” he continues, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re supposed to help me find something real, and here you are, getting paid to play pretend with some celebrity?” His eyes bore into me, filled with a mix of confusion and judgment.

I sink deeper in my seat, feeling small. “It’s complicated,” I manage to say, taking a deep breath in an attempt to salvage my composure. “And it’s my personal business,” I add firmly, hoping to steer the conversation away. “It doesn’t affect my ability to help you.”

He chuckles dryly. “It has everything to do with that. Would you trust a dentist with bad teeth?”

“Wow,” I exhale sharply. “I don’t think—” I start to defend myself.

“I wouldn’t, no offense,” he interrupts briskly. “I hope you figure things out.” He stands, giving me a look of pity that makes me shrink inside. I avert my eyes, feeling tears prick at the corners.

As I hear the door close behind him, my composure breaks. Sobs convulse through me.

This was my fear from the start, the very concern I voiced to Liam at the beginning. This is why the fake arrangement was a bad idea. He could have found any other woman.

I need air. I need to get out of this room.

I wipe my eyes and fling my office door back open. The small lobby area is empty because it’s only quarter after the hour. My colleagues’ clients are still in their appointments and the next round of clients won’t arrive for another forty-five minutes or so.

I quickly cross the hallway and push open the stairwell door, quickly ascending the flight of stairs.

I burst out onto the rooftop patio, the harsh sunlight making me squint. Normally a lunchtime retreat for some professionals, it’s thankfully deserted at this early hour.

I weave through potted plants and sink into a seat by the glass railing, the same kind of barrier I leaned on the last time I was on a rooftop with Liam, back when everything felt dreamy and exhilarating—before everything fell apart.

My stupid choices. My mind scolds me relentlessly. I knew better. I knew it wouldn't end well.

I sniffle as tears stream down my cheeks. After a moment, I pull out my phone.

Please answer, I silently hope as the line rings.

“Chloe?” His voice comes through after a few rings, and I can't hold back a choked sob.

“Hi, Dad.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

LIAM

“Mr. Wright, we’re ready,” the producer informs me, gesturing toward the setup by the fireplace. Chairs are arranged, lights on stands brighten the area, and two cameras are positioned strategically. My spacious living room suddenly feels cramped, filled with the interview crew and their equipment.

“Great,” I reply, checking my watch. “She should be here any minute,” I add with a hint of forced confidence, silently questioning whether Chloe will actually show up. She’s already late.

“Is Chloe doing okay?” my mother whispers, pulling me aside. She’s dressed in a silver jacket with a matching blouse and pants, styled for the camera. My PR agent thought having mother’s blessing on the relationship would help soften the whole thing, so she’s prepped and ready for her moment in the spotlight.

“No, I don’t think so,” I respond quietly as I adjust my uncomfortably warm sports jacket.

Grateful for a reason to escape, I follow my mother through the open doors leading to the darkened patio and the softly illuminated pool beyond. I expect the cool breeze to be a relief, but my nerves are wound too tight.

I need to see her. This interview should help smooth things over after our leaked text messages revealed our fake dating arrangement—as long as the reporter sticks to my strict instructions to avoid any questions about the night of Chloe’s police visit. She doesn’t need to relive that trauma.

“Are they close to identifying the hacker?” my mother asks in a low voice. Though we’re standing well away from anyone else, her caution is prudent with the media circus around us.

I exhale, my frustration palpable. “No, they’re not going to.” I shake my head. “My tech team says it’s rare to trace these things back to a specific individual or group, especially when the hacker was as careful as this one.” I’ve let Chloe down. The weight of my failure presses down on me. I told Chloe I’d take care of it, and I haven’t.

I wouldn’t normally burden my mother with this, but the words spill out before I can rein them in. My stress is peeling away my usual restraint.

“Have you told her?” my mother asks, though her tone suggests she already knows the answer.

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