Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 52663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
“Because I—”
“We’re not together anymore. Why bother?”
“Because I’ll always love you.”
He laughs bitterly. “Okay. Go put that in one of your poems. I don’t want to hear that right now.”
“Cole, stop.”
“No, you fucking stop. You’re here, I can’t have you, can’t talk to you, and I’m tired.”
“You act like we were in a long-term relationship,” I hiss. “I barely know you.”
“Didn’t stop you from fucking me.”
“Seriously?”
“Walk away from me, Emily.”
“Or what?”
We glare at each other, tension stretched thin. Then suddenly, it breaks.
We collide in a kiss—angry, hungry, desperate. Hands gripping, mouths crushed, nothing soft or sweet. Just pain and want and three years of ache.
“I miss you,” he breathes.
“I never stopped loving you,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
Then: the unmistakable sound of glass clinking. Crates shifting. Murmurs.
We pull apart.
Turn.
People from the event are standing just outside the open doorway. Phones out. Jaw dropped. Recording.
“You’re sleeping with your stepsister?” someone says.
“So Aidan Dawson covered up a DUI and incest?” another voice whispers.
The murmurs grow louder. Buzzing. Snapping photos. Filming.
I let go of Cole’s hand.
But he grabs it right back and pulls me down the hall, away from the crowd.
As we disappear around the corner, I hear one final question—loud and cutting like a knife through the noise:
“Mr. Dawson! How long has your son been screwing his stepsister? Is that your idea of family values?”
33
At Least We Know Where Aidan Dawson Stands on Incest
Why Dawson Should Cancel His Book Tour Amidst Scandal
How Long Has This Relationship Been Going On?
Will He Address It?
Utter Silence on Son & Stepdaughter’s Relationship Speaks Volumes
Social Media Users Pick Apart Body Language
34
EMILY
“Can you believe the gall of this man?” the blonde anchor sneers from the flatscreen. Her perfectly curled hair doesn’t move as she gestures emphatically. “Lecturing us all on the importance of family values, bragging about how his blended family is a model for the nation—”
“Hold on, Kelly,” her cohost interrupts. He’s wearing a pinstriped suit and a smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Do you think there’s a chance he didn’t know? That maybe the kids had their own thing going on without his knowledge?”
“Oh, they definitely had more than one thing going on,” she fires back with a roll of her eyes. “But okay, James, let’s play devil’s advocate. Let’s say he had no idea his son was sleeping with his stepdaughter—under his own roof. Is that really the kind of man we want speaking at our town hall? Leading book clubs on moral integrity?”
“Point taken,” James says smoothly, turning to the camera. “Let’s check in with Amanda, who’s live in The Square with public reactions to the news.”
The broadcast cuts to a reporter standing in front of a massive digital billboard looping Aidan Dawson’s book promo—his face still smug, still untouchable.
Below it, a crowd.
Real people. Furious voices.
“Disgusting.”
“Can’t believe this is happening here.”
“How did the parents not know?”
“When is he suspending his show?”
I can’t breathe.
Tears slip down my cheeks before I even realize I’ve started crying. The remote sits uselessly in my lap, but I don’t reach for it. I should turn it off. Should stop listening to the headlines dissecting my life like it’s entertainment.
But I can’t look away.
It’s like watching a car crash I caused. One I tried to swerve around, but couldn’t. One I never walked away from.
This was supposed to blow over quietly. Fade into the background like every other scandal. But now it’s on every screen, in every living room. Now strangers say my name like a punchline, like a warning.
And worst of all, there’s no way to correct the story without making it worse.
I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders and stare at the screen, heart pounding, face hot with shame. Every second feels like an hour. Every word like a slap.
I should be angry.
But all I feel is exposed.
35
EMILY
Justin
Delete my number.
Don’t ever contact me again.
The stares come from every direction when I walk into my usual campus café on Thursday. Even the Uber driver who dropped me off kept giving me confused looks through the rearview mirror at every stoplight.
“What can I get for you this morning?” the waitress asks, pen poised.
“I’ll have two cinnamon lattes.”
She raises a brow. “Is one of those for your stepbrother?”
I roll my eyes. “I’ll also have two plain bagels with honey almond butter.”
“I’m just asking.”
“I’d also appreciate a side of syrup,” I add, glancing around as the entire café dips into an awkward silence. The two women at the table next to me are practically leaning over their plates to catch every word.
“You know what?” I shake my head. “I’ll take everything to go.”
35A
COLE
The damage from a scandal burns in layers.
First comes the initial hit—the public fallout, the headlines, the gut-punch humiliation. Then the second wave: silence, shame, the replay of every choice that led to this. But the worst part—the deepest part—is how long it takes to heal.