Page 101 of Knotted

What the actual fuck?

Because three hours is too long for him to wait, and his dick needs an appetizer?

What the hell did fake Sydney Sun even say to him? Were they sexting? Sending photos?

Is this why he plans towork the room?He’s horny?

My chest tightens painfully, anger wrapping itself around something deeper—something raw and ugly.I’m hurt.

He wants her.

I can feel it in the way his voice drops to that low, breathytone, in the bedroom eyes he’s flashing, and holy shit—the bulge in his pants isn’t exactly subtle.

Argh!

Focus, Jules.Bigger issues at hand.

Sydney’s on the agenda.

Sydney’s been emailing him.

ButI’mSydney.

Only . . . I’m not.

Shit, shit, shit. I can’t tell him off without telling him the truth. And if I tell him now, he’ll know I’ve been lying to him this entire time.

Not outright lying, I guess—I never said Iwasn’tSydney Sun. But we texted, we talked, and I had so many chances to tell him,“Brian, I am Sydney Sun.”

And now, it’s all unraveling. One second, we’re on solid ground, and the next, the earth is crumbling beneath my feet, everything I’ve built with him about to be ripped away, slipping through my fingers like it never even existed.

I open my mouth to speak, but it feels like sand in my throat. Nothing comes out.I could lose him.

Or maybe I’ve already lost him. With the way he fawns over Sydney Sun, like if he doesn’t have her soon, he’ll die—he isn’t mine.

My pulse thuds loudly in my ears and drowns out the world.

She’s not Sydney Sun. I am. But does that even matter anymore? Whoever he’s been speaking to, whatever connection they’ve made, feels...real. And it’s killing me.

But it’s also a lie, and this tight, suffocating ache in my chest, knowing I need to tell him the truth—Iknow I’ll be taking a blowtorch to everything we’ve tried to rebuild until there’s nothing left but rubble and ash.

I have to tell him. Now.

My lips part, the confession clawing up my throat, ready to be unleashed. But before I can say a word, a man interrupts, casually clearing his throat. “We’re ready for you, Mr. Bishop.”

“Ready?”

“Yes, from your RSVP. You’ll be introduced in a minute to present the Trailblazer Award for Journalism.”

“There must be some mistake.”

The man checks his clipboard. “That’s what I have here. If you’d like, I can have you speak with the production team.”

Brian gives an impatient nod, then leans in, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek—my cheek. “I’ll be right back.”

And just like that, he’s gone, slipping through the crowd, leaving me standing there with my heart tossed carelessly back at me.

Stunned, I stand there, rooted to the spot like an idiot as I fight tears.

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