Page 134 of Only Mine
“Lying won’t help.” His voice is soft but final. “The internet is like an ant colony. Once they pick up the scent, they’ll follow it all the way home.”
I know he’s right. I’ve seen it happen countless times. The collective obsession, the thrill of the hunt, the rush of discovery. They’ll keep digging until they unearth every detail.
“I’m sorry,” I say, the words pathetically inadequate.
“I know.” His hands slide up my arms, coming to rest on my shoulders. “That’s what scares me.”
My pasta grows cold on the table. Outside, lightning flashes, illuminating the stark angles of Saint’s face.
“When Celine died, there were photographers at the funeral. They wanted grief porn. The widowed, millionaire chef, barely thirty. The tragic accident. They camped outside our apartment for weeks, following me to the grocery store,to Ivy’s daycare. One asshole actually asked me to comment on whether I blamed myself for her death while I was buying diapers.”
My stomach turns.
“That’s when I realized fame isn’t something you can turn on and off. It’s a parasite. It feeds on everything you try to keep private.” He squeezes my shoulders. “I spent three years building walls around us and making sure Ivy could grow up without cameras in her face and strangers knowing her business.”
Thunder rumbles overhead, shaking the windows.
“And now they know where we live. They know what school she goes to, what restaurant I own, probably what fucking cereal she eats for breakfast. I’ve spent threefuckingyears making sure Ivy could grow up without that circus following her around.”
“And I just let them back in.”
Saint’s silence is answer enough.
The weight of what I’ve done settles over me like concrete. I think of Ivy’s bright eyes, her fierce independence, the way she trusts so selectively. How many photos of her are already circulating in comment threads? How many strangers are analyzing her face, looking for resemblances, building theories about her mother’s death?
“I’ll fix this,” I say desperately. “I’ll make them stop.”
Thunder rumbles overhead, closer now. The storm is moving in fast. Rain pelts the windows harder, drumming against the glass like impatient fingers.
“They’ll come,” he says matter-of-factly. “Food bloggers. Journalists. People with cameras looking for the tragic chef who vanished after his wife’s death. They’ll want the comeback story. About why I left and whether I’ve moved on with the pretty influencer who makes videos in my kitchen.”
The room spins. I grip his forearms to steady myself. “Saint, what are you saying?”
His muscles tense underneath my palms. Saint’s still here, still solid, but that part of him I’ve been slowly earning starts to slip out of my grasp.
“I’m saying I don’t know how to protect you and Ivy at the same time.”
I blink, the words slow to land.
“I never asked you to protect me,” I say.
“No.” His voice is rough. “But you made me want to.”
His gaze drops to where I’m still holding him. Like it hurts and he needs to peel me off. Like he never wants me to let go. Like he can’t decide which it is.
“You said you felt real with me,” he murmurs. “I haven’t felt real since the day Celine died.”
I can barely breathe.
“That night, when I first met you, I forgot about all of it. The grief, the guilt, the need to stay hidden. I’m not supposed to have this. You. Any of it.”
I shake my head, confused. “You’re allowed to move on.”
“That’s not what this is,” he says, eyes flicking up to meet mine. “This isn’t moving on. This is falling. Blindly. Recklessly. Like I don’t have a child who depends on me.”
His hands lift and cup my face. Saint doesn’t pull me in. Just touches. As if it’s the last time he’ll let himself do it.
“You said I made you feel real, too,” I whisper, fighting the burn behind my eyes.
