Page 44 of Fixing to Be Mine

She brushes a piece of hair behind her ear, and the movement is small, but it unravels me.

I want to kiss her. I almost do. Instead, I lean away from her, against the armrest beside me, needing contact with something solid to keep myself grounded.

She glances away, her voice soft as she says, “We’re fucked, aren’t we?”

“Yep. We sure are,” I say with a smile, appreciating the confirmation that we’re on the same page.

Sunny softly laughs, scooting closer to me, not letting me escape her. I wrap my arm around her shoulders, and she leans her head against me, and that’s how we stay for a long while.

We’re two people caught between something neither of us can name.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

SUNNY

By the time we get back to the house, my body is tired, but my brain won’t settle.

Dinner was beautiful. So many people talked over each other and somehow still listened. It was the type of chaos that filled an empty part of me. I felt like I belonged with them.

Colt’s family is big, unfiltered, and kind. Every single one of them treated me like I was a gift. Summer offered to pack us leftovers. Kinsley asked if I wanted my palm read. Vera slipped a flower into my hand and complimented my dress.

Remi pulled me aside in the kitchen and said, “He’s never brought anyone to dinner before. You should know that.”

I’m still holding on to those words, but I don’t want to admit how good it felt to be chosen.

This town is the opposite of everything I ran from. I’m not used to quiet nights, crickets, unlocked doors, or people who wave when they drive by. I don’t have to dodge camera flashes or fake my way through small talk about hedge fund mergers or strategic branding partnerships. Valentine is a small town, where people build lives, not résumés.

My face hurts from smiling so much. I move to the bedroom, still wearing the sundress, and sit on the edge of the bed.

The room is quiet and safe, but my curiosity gets the best of me.

I reach for my phone on the nightstand, even though I know I shouldn’t.

No one’s texted me—not that I expected them to since no one has this number. I open the browser and type my name into the search bar. The headlines come fast and merciless.

Heiress Disappears Before Lavish NYC Wedding

Sources Say It Was Cold Feet

Tech Mogul Donovan Left Alone at Altar

PR Powerhouse Vanishes Without a Trace

There are photos too.

Donovan is standing in front of the venue with his bow tie, holding a glass of champagne like he’s trying to appear composed and worried. In another one, he’s sitting on the venue steps with his head in his hands, surrounded by security. The angles are too perfect, too staged. I know a planted narrative when I see one.

There’s even a shot of my clothes in the bridal suite. The cute pink pantsuit I wore to the venue before I changed into the dress is hanging on the door. A caption underneath it reads:No dress. No bride. No warning.

I lock the screen and set the phone down with a little more force than necessary. My pulse increases, and my jaw clenches tight. That familiar tension curls around my heart like a snake.

I know that PR crisis language. I used it to bury stories worse than this.

But this time, I’m the story, and Donovan is acting like a victim.

And whoever fed them these quotes wants me to stay gone so they can rewrite it all.

Skye.

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