Page 105 of Knotted

All that matters is Brian.

What if she slips into his life, prying open his deepest, most vulnerable secrets? She could twist everything—his wounds, his strength—turn him into a shell of the man he is, laid bare for the world to see, his hidden scars and the weight of his past exposed.

I call two more times, and when that doesn’t work, in one last desperate attempt, I text him.

The woman you’re with isn’t Sydney Sun.

Minutes crawl by, each one heavier than the last, until my phone finally pings with a reply.

I know.

CHAPTER 47

Jules

It’s been two days, and I’m a wreck. Barely functioning. My picture has been all over the news, and Brian’s been MIA.

But when there’s a knock at the door, I nearly bulldoze Taylor out of the way to answer it.

But it’s not Brian.

It’s Trent Mercer.

“Can I come in?” he asks, looking less like hell warmed over and more put together. Polished. Professional. Like he’s here on business.

Meanwhile, I’m standing there, woefully underdressed in my unwashed sweats, heart on my sleeve and barely holding it together.

I shrug, numb to just about everything right now. So, sure. Why not?

I step aside, letting him in just as Taylor barrels out of her room.

“If that fuckface is here, I’m about to tear him a new one for breaking your heart and—” She halts mid-ass-kicking,her eyes widening in realization. “Oh, sorry. I thought you were her husband.”

He nods, like being mistaken for someone’s cheating husband is just another Tuesday for him.

Then, like a switch flipping, Taylor shifts gears into hostess mode, looping her arm through his. “You’re Trent Mercer.”

“Yes. All-around asshole and recovering alcoholic,” he says dryly, his eyes locked on mine. “Can I have a moment alone with Ms. Spenser? Or is it Mrs. Bishop?”

Barely hanging on, I choke out, “Just Jules.”

Taylor glances at me for permission, and with a quick nod, she retreats to her room, leaving me to face whatever the hell this is, head-on.

Trent’s gaze flicks between the lumpy sofa and the rickety chair, his rich-boy discomfort barely hidden. Then, he frowns. His eyes fall on the wine bottle on the table.

I wave it off. “It’s empty,” I say, trying to sound more composed than I feel.

“It’s not that,” he says, his voice low, steady, but heavy with something unsaid. “That was the wine they served at my wedding.” He pauses, glancing down as if the memory stings just enough. “My wife left a few years back, and it’s these little reminders from the universe that keep me sober.”

Slowly, he settles into the chair, as if his weight might collapse it.

I clear my throat. “What are you doing here?”

He pulls out a hot pink phone and tosses it my way. I catch it with one hand, my stomach tightening in a heavy knot. “This is Roxana’s.”

He nods. “I confiscated it from her. Right before I fired her.”

I force a smile, trying to push down the storm of emotions. “Thank you.”

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