Page 82 of It's Not All Fake

“Look, you’re trying to make me jealous—and I am,” I admit, frustration boiling over. “But Chloe made it very clear that we’re done. She didn’t want a relationship anymore and moved to another country.”

I struggle to mask my hurt, but it’s palpable. My mother watches me, her expression unreadable. I silently plead for her to let the topic go.

Finally, she stands, her lips pursed in a tight line. Clearly, she’s upset, and I know better than to expect any comforting words now.

Instead, she reaches into her pocket and pulls something out. My stomach tightens as I recognize what it is.

She lays the diamond necklaces I gave Chloe as a gift on my desk. “Her friend, Ashley, dropped these off yesterday afternoon. You were busy working,” she explains the delay.

I thought Chloe kept them. Instead, she left them behind in her empty apartment, and her friend eventually got around to returning them.

A wave of rejection washes over me.

Just two days ago, I learned that my assistant helped Chloe wire back most of the money I paid her for our arrangement. It felt like yet another step she took to distance herself from me, cutting ties. The only funds she kept were already spent to pay the last few months of her office rent—a minor fraction of what I owed her, even with her ending things early.

She’s still accepting help from my legal team, which is the least I can do. But they're nearly finished cleaning up after the ransomware attack. Just last week, they made a breakthrough; after obtaining a warrant to seize Lucas’ electronics, they found evidence he’d paid a hacker to target Chloe. She was right. Now he's behind bars, and I've put top prosecutors on the case. Yet, despite this victory, Chloe hasn’t returned to Los Angeles. It has changed nothing.

Her actions send a clear message: it’s truly over. She seems to want nothing more from me and it hurts like hell.

My mother gives me a pitying look. “Liam, you are so courageous in your business—risking millions on ventures that aren’t guaranteed.” She gestures towards my computer. "It’s a shame you can’t harness that boldness in your personal life," she adds, her expression a blend of sadness and disappointment.

Ouch. Her words sting, like grinding salt into the wound.

"Thanks for the pep talk, Mom," I respond sarcastically, running my hands over my face as she leaves the room, giving me some space at last.

But now, I can’t concentrate on my work.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHLOE

Now I’m the one waiting at the airport, eager with anticipation.

“Ashley!” I squeal when I see her. I wrap her in a big hug, overjoyed to see her. “Thank you for coming. I missed you,” I say as we step back.

“Almost two months, lady! That’s too long,” she chides, shaking her head with a playful smirk before letting out a giggle. “Alright, let’s go grab some fish and chips or something.”

“So, you’re not over him,” Ashley states matter-of-factly as she pops a fry into her mouth. The pub buzzes with the energy of the lunch crowd.

I can't help but laugh, caught off guard by her bluntness. “You don’t waste a second, do you?” I reply, my eyes dropping to my plate where I idly poke at the fried fish.

“Chloe,” she says, fixing her gaze on me as she takes a sip of her ale, “you’re great at dodging the subject, but I know you too well.”

I exhale deeply. “It’s complicated,” I admit, struggling to explain my lingering thoughts about Liam. “I think I made up all these feelings... and sometimes, the fantasy is nice.” I shrug, acknowledging the part of me that isn’t ready to let go.

“Okay, well I’ve got the perfect distraction,” she smirks, changing gears.

“It’s a trailer screening?” I ask, slightly bewildered, as I follow Ashley toward a charming boutique cinema tucked away in a cul-de-sac. The setting sun casts the sky in hues of pink and purple.

“Ten new, never-before-seen movie trailers. We can thank Zak for the tickets,” she says with a grin, referring to some new cinematographer she’s dating. As we head inside, marquee lights blaze under the overhang, casting a warm, romantic glow.

“So, we aren’t seeing an actual movie,” I confirm, just to be sure.

“No,” she laughs, as if I’m silly for asking.

Inside, the theater is quaint and intimate, with a grand arched ceiling. The red curtain up front matches the plush, squishy seats, which are nearly all occupied.

“Guess this is a thing,” I comment, noting the crowded space.

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