Chapter 89
Samantha's POV
The apartment smelled like home—or at least, what I'd convinced Lucas home should smell like. Vanilla candles. Marinara sauce simmering on the stove. That expensive fabric softener his mother used, the one I'd special-ordered after he mentioned it once, months ago.
I'd spent three hours getting everything perfect. The fireplace crackled just right. I was wearing his favorite sweater—that soft pink cashmere he'd complimented exactly twice, which meant it was burned into my memory forever. The pasta was al dente, the garlic bread golden, the wine breathing on the counter like we were adults playing house.
When Lucas knocked at 7:03—three minutes late, but who was counting—I answered with my brightest smile. The one that said I'm so happy you're here instead of where the hell have you been for the past five nights.
"Hey, babe." He kissed my forehead, that casual gesture that used to make me float but now just felt... mechanical. "Smells amazing."
"I made your favorite." I took his jacket, hung it carefully on the hook by the door. "How was practice?"
"Exhausting." He sank onto the couch like gravity had suddenly doubled. There were shadows under his eyes, and something in his posture reminded me of a caged animal. Restless. Uncomfortable in his own skin.
Probably thinking about her, the voice in my head whispered. Probably wishing he was with—
"Sam?" Lucas was looking at me, eyebrows raised. "You okay?"
"Perfect." I smoothed my expression back into place, that mask I'd perfected over years of foster care and borrowed kindness. "Just zoned out for a second. Come on, let's eat before it gets cold."
Dinner was a performance. I asked about his training schedule—he mumbled something about Coach Thompson being intense. I mentioned his mother's health—his jaw tightened, but he just nodded. I tried bringing up the Martinez event, casually dropping that I'd heard Ellie was there with Jackson, watching his reaction from the corner of my eye.
Nothing. Not even a flicker.
He was getting better at hiding it. Or I was getting worse at reading him.
By the time we finished eating, Lucas looked ready to pass out. He helped with dishes on autopilot, then collapsed back on the couch with a groan that sounded almost pained.
"You alright?" I curled up beside him, resting my head on his shoulder.
"Just tired." His phone buzzed on the coffee table. He didn't reach for it. "Think I might crash early, if that's okay?"
"Of course." I stroked his hair, felt him relax into the touch. "Bed's all ready."
He was asleep by 2:15 AM. I knew because I'd been watching the clock, counting down the minutes until his breathing evened out into that deep, dreamless rhythm that meant he wouldn't wake up if the building caught fire.
The phone was right there. Same spot on the nightstand where he always left it, face-down like he had something to hide.
Don't, I told myself. You're being paranoid. Crazy. This is what they did to you—made you suspicious of everyone, made you think love always came with conditions and escape plans.
But my hand was already reaching. Already entering the passcode—his birthday, because Lucas Miller was exactly that predictable when he thought he was being transparent.
The home screen lit up. Basketball team photo. Generic. Safe.
I opened his messages first. Checked our thread—good, nothing deleted recently. Checked his mom—standard worried-parent stuff. Checked...
There. Ellie's contact.
The messages were sparse. Weeks old. Nothing incriminating.
I should've felt relieved. Should've put the phone back and curled up against Lucas's warm, sleeping body and counted my blessings.
Instead, I opened his photo gallery.
Just a quick look, I bargained with myself. Just to be sure.
I scrolled backwards through time. Basketball practice. Locker room selfies with teammates. A few photos of us—my favorites, the ones where I looked perfect and he looked happy...
And then I saw it.
The timestamp read today morning. The angle was from high up, looking down at the quad. And there, centered in the frame like she'd been framed by fucking Ansel Adams himself, was Ellie Green.
She was laughing. Head thrown back, snowflakes catching in her dark hair, that light gray jacket making her look like something out of a winter fairy tale. Her amber eyes were bright with genuine joy. She was glowing.
The photo was slightly blurry. The kind of blur you get when you're trying to zoom through a window without being obvious. When you're hiding because you know what you're doing is wrong.
When you're spying on someone you claim not to care about anymore.
My hands started shaking. Not from fear—from rage so pure it felt like ice water in my veins.
I zoomed in. Studied every detail. The way Ellie's smile crinkled the corners of her eyes. The casual confidence in her posture. The freedom in that laugh—like she'd shrugged off whatever Lucas had done to her and come out stronger, better, completely unbothered by his existence.
Lucas stirred beside me, mumbling something I couldn't make out. I froze, phone screen dark against my chest, counting heartbeats until he settled again.
I used AirDrop to send the photo to my own phone. Watched it transfer, that little success notification popping up. Then I deleted it from Lucas's phone—not just from the gallery, but from Recently Deleted, from any cloud backup he might have auto-syncing.
I'd been going about this all wrong. Trying to compete with Ellie's effortless charm, her family money, her history with Lucas. Trying to be better, sweeter, more devoted.
But you couldn't win a fight by being nicer than your opponent.
Claire Underwood didn't play nice. She played smart.
I set Lucas's phone back on the nightstand, exactly where he'd left it. Slipped out of bed, grabbed my own phone, padded into the living room in bare feet. The hardwood was cold. The city lights through the windows painted everything in shades of amber and shadow.
I pulled up Jack's contact. My fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Finally: Meet me tomorrow at Oak Square Mall, 3 PM. Coffee shop near the food court. We need to discuss our family's future.