Chapter 81

Chapter 81
Blaze

Davenport Heir’s Secret Engagement to Rebecca Cole Leaked Ahead of Gala Appearance.

That’s the goddamn headline. Bold, flashy, tabloid-style font like it knows it’s about to ruin someone’s day. And yeah, it fucking does.

My thumb hovers over the screen. I blink at the picture sitting right under the headline—Carlo, fucking Carlo, on one knee with a diamond ring, slipping it onto some girl’s perfectly manicured finger. Rebecca Cole. She’s smiling like she just won the goddamn lottery. Probably because she did.

There’s his dad in the background, beaming like the smug prick he is. And his mom—she actually looks proud for once. Everyone in that fucking picture looks like they belong. Like this moment was meant to happen, like it’s some fucking fairytale.

Except it’s not.

I’m standing in the middle of our fucking room holding a phone that feels like it’s turning into a brick in my hand. My pulse hammers behind my eyes. The blood in my ears drowns out every bit of logic I’m supposed to be holding on to.

I tap the link. The blog loads slowly—too slowly. My knee bounces, and I already know I’m about to regret this shit. The video starts buffering and I brace myself. I could just close it. I could just pretend I didn’t see anything. I could—

But I don’t. Because I’m a fucking idiot.

The video starts.

It’s a goddamn event. Bright lights. Red carpet. A setup so perfect it looks like a PR stunt—because it fucking is. Carlo walks in wearing a sharp suit, tailored to hell. He’s smiling like he owns the world. And there she is, Rebecca fucking Cole, clinging to his arm like they’ve been together for years. Everyone’s clapping. Paparazzi flashing.

And then it cuts to the actual proposal.

He gets down on one knee. Opens a velvet box. Says something I can’t hear over the gasping crowd.

She says yes. Of course she does.

He puts the ring on her finger like it’s nothing. Like it’s easy. Like we didn’t exist.

I pause the video.

The image freezes right on his face. That soft, proud smile—the one he wears when he wants to pretend he’s doing the right thing. I know that fucking smile. I’ve seen it a hundred times. In bed. In the car. When he thought I wasn’t paying attention.

And now it’s aimed at her.

I lower the phone and stare at the wall for a second. Everything around me blurs like I’m underwater. I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until I let it out in a shaky exhale.

“Fuck,” I whisper.

My throat tightens. My chest starts to cave. I press the heels of my palms into my eyes and try to breathe through it, but it’s already flooding. That heat. That sting. That fucking burn in the middle of my chest that screams he lied to you again.

He told me he wanted me.

So why the fuck is he out there playing house with someone else?

I sit on the edge of the bed. The sheets are still warm from when he got out of them this morning. His scent is still all over me. His marks still on my neck, my hips, my goddamn soul.

I look down at the phone again, and it’s like the screen is mocking me.

Rebecca Cole. Actress. Heiress. Daddy’s favorite. A business genius or some shit. She’s perfect. Clean. Pressed. Groomed.

Everything I’m not.

Of course his parents love her.

Of course he’d rather be seen with her.

Of course this was always going to happen. What was I thinking? That a heir to an empire, the only legitimate son would end up with a fucking man?

How the fuck did I fall so deep to have forgotten the damn truth right in front of me. We never spoke about how all this was gonna end, maybe I was too blind to remember that it was going to end one fucking day.

Damn it!

I run a hand through my hair, gripping tight. My head throbs. My vision starts to blur again, but this time I don’t fight it. The tears come anyway. Hot, angry, pathetic tears.

I swipe them away, but it’s too late. The dam’s cracked. My chest heaves and my hand shakes and I try to tell myself it’s just PR. Just politics. Just a lie to keep his family happy.

But lies or not—it still fucking hurts.

I hear the bathroom door creak open behind me.

Shit.

I don’t turn around. I just freeze.

I feel him before I see him. The heat of steam rolls out. Bare feet against the tile. The soft rustle of a towel. My pulse spikes. My jaw clenches.

I should throw the phone at his fucking head. I should scream, curse, ask him what the hell he thinks he’s doing. I should fucking leave.

But I don’t.

I just sit there. With his phone in my hand. His betrayal burning into my skin. My chest rising and falling like I’m trying not to drown.

Then I look up.

And our eyes meet.

Carlo stands in the doorway, towel low on his hips, hair damp, water still sliding down his chest.

He sees me.

He sees the phone in my hand.

He sees the tears on my face.

And we’re both frozen. Speechless. Motionless.

Just standing in the wreckage of whatever the fuck we were.