Page 179 of Lady and the Hitman
Still us.
36
My career, as I knew it, ended with a buzz.
I stirred under the sheets, skin warm from Ronan’s body still tangled around mine, and reached blindly for my phone on the nightstand. My hand brushed his wrist instead. His fingers were curled gently against my stomach like he wasn’t quite ready to let me go—not yet.
The screen lit up with a flash of messages. Then another. Then a call from Nadine at College of Charleston. I declined it automatically, still not awake enough to process what the hell was happening.
But when I tapped into my notifications, the pieces started to fall like glass.
A photo. One I hadn’t taken, hadn’t posed for. One that made my blood run cold.
Me and Ronan.
On the swanky rooftop terrace with the infinity pool. Of course. His hands on my hips. My eyes glazed with desire. The glass wall behind us, the city glowing, thewhole moment immortalized like something out of a dream—except it wasn’t a dream anymore. It was viral.
The post wasn’t from a gossip site. It was from Trevor.
Or rather, from his professional account, though I doubted now it was anything close to professional. A short caption. No context. Just a link to an exposé that looked polished enough to pass as serious journalism if you didn’t know who he was or what he wanted. The headline was enough to stop my breath.
Who Is Alpha Mail Protecting—and at What Cost?
Below it: the photo. My face crystal clear. Ronan’s, partially obscured by the angle but still recognizable to anyone who’d seen him before—or would look hard enough.
“Oh, my God,” I whispered.
I sat up, the blanket falling to my waist. My phone slipped from my hand and hit the floor with a soft thud.
Ronan stirred behind me, the arm that had held me loosening. “What is it?”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. My thoughts were already racing ahead. The column. The university. My reputation. Everything I’d worked so hard to build, balanced precariously on a tightrope—and now it had snapped.
I’d been so afraid of this. Now it was real.
Another buzz. Another call. This time, I picked up.
“Nadine?”
Her voice was tight, clipped, the professional tone that only came out when she was panicked but trying to pretend she wasn’t. “Zara. We saw the photo.”
My stomach dropped. “It’s not what it looks like?—”
“We were waiting for you to confirm your fall courseschedule. I’m calling to say we no longer need you to teach this semester.”
The air left my lungs. “You’re rescinding my classes?”
“There was concern raised by the board,” she said carefully. “Concerns about optics. Allegiances. We need time to review the situation.”
“You mean my sex life?”
A pause.
“Goodbye, Zara.”
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone, pulse thudding behind my eyes. I wanted to scream. Cry. Call her back and demand she explain how a single photo could strip away years of work. But another call was already coming in.
