hapter 20
Wesley didn’t come after me when I walked away, but his texts didn’t stop.
Iris, are you okay?
I’m sorry. Please talk to me.
I love you. Let me prove it wasn’t me.
There was no anger in his words, no accusations, only quiet desperation steeped in regret and concern.
I didn’t respond. I couldn’t.
A part of me yearned to believe him, longed to grasp at the hope his words offered, but the memory of him kissing another woman clung to me like a dark cloud, replaying
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relentlessly in my mind. I couldn’t allow myself to falter–not again.
So, I silenced my phone and disappeared. For days, I holed up in a hotel, hiding from the world outside. The curtains remained drawn, the television sat muted, and I did my best to convince myself that the world no longer existed.
But the world didn’t grant me the same courtesy.
Relentless headlines chased me, hunting me down even in the quiet of my self–made
cocoon.
“Iris Keaton Betrayed Again?”
“The Billionaire’s Wife Faces Another Cheating Scandal.”
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“Is Iris the Problem? Why Do Men Keep Leaving Her?”
I stared blankly at the flashing screen, the sting of each word searing into my chest. They weren’t reporting–they were dissecting me, poking at my failures, stripping me down to a caricature of pity. I wasn’t a person to them anymore. I was a headline.
My thumb hovered over the power button, ready to claim a moment of silence, when suddenly Wesley appeared on the screen.
He was standing behind a podium at a press conference, the dark circles beneath his eyes proof of sleepless nights. Guilt twisted inside me even as my heart warred with the betrayal still fresh in my mind. I loved him -but if he had cheated again, love wasn’t enough.
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“I want to make this clear,” he said firmly, his voice threaded with quiet resolve. “The video circulating of me is fake. I did not cheat on my wife. I have never been unfaithful to her, and I never will be.”
The conviction in his voice was a sound I hadn’t heard in days, and it cut through me. I wanted to believe him–so badly–but the past had left scars, and trust didn’t come easy anymore.
“I love ri
he continued, each word steady. “She is my wife, and I’ll do whatever it takes to protect her and clear my name. I’ve also issued a reward for any information regarding Delilah Starling’s whereabouts. This ends now.”
His words hung in the air as my chest constricted.
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I turned the television off and sank back
onto the hotel bed.
It felt like I was stuck in an endless loop, the same nightmare playing on repeat. Gareth had betrayed me. Quentin had failed me. And now, this.
Was it me? Was I cursed to bleed trust until I had none left to give?
Tears welled up, sliding freely down my cheeks as I pressed my hands to my face. I had forgiven Gareth. I had forgiven Quentin. But forgiveness lessened nothing–not the ache in my heart or the gnawing doubt that whispered cruel truths in the still of the night.
And then there was Delilah.
She was the last puzzle piece, the jagged
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fragment piercing everything she touched. If I ever wanted peace–if I ever wanted to break free–I had to confront her.
As if fate had been waiting, my phone buzzed on the nightstand.
I hesitated, glancing at the caller ID. My stomach sank, and my heart skipped a beat. Gareth.
Against my better judgment, I answered. “Hello?”
“Iris.” His voice was soft, laced with something unsettling–was it guilt? Shame?
I stayed silent, torn between hanging up and hearing him out.
“I’ve been looking into Delilah,” he said after a moment. “She’s still out there, Iris. I think I
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know where she might be hiding.”
His words jolted me awake. Suspicion crept into my tone. “Why are you helping me?” I asked, skeptical.
He sighed, and the deep exhale carried years of regret. “Because I owe you. For everything. I broke your trust–your heart- and I can’t change the past, but maybe I can help you move forward.”
I swallowed hard, the emotions tangling inside of me a chaotic mess. “Thank you,” I murmured.
Gareth rattled off a list of potential locations -places where Delilah could be hiding. Each name sent icy chills down my spine as I carefully wrote them down.
“Good luck, Iris,” he said quietly before the
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* 5 Prints
line went dead.
I didn’t waste another second.
I grabbed my bag, throwing on a coat and sunglasses before stepping into the empty hallway. The hotel felt eerily quiet, my hurried footsteps the only sound as I made my way toward the elevator.
But just as I turned a corner, I bumped into someone, the sudden collision leaving me breathless.
“Sorry,” I muttered, stepping back. My gaze lifted, and my heart dropped.
Wesley.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded, frustration sharpening my voice like a blade.
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The man blinked, confusion etched across his face. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”
“What?” I snapped, disbelief tightening like a vice. “Really, Wesley? You’re going to play this game now? Pretend you don’t know me?”
“I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else,” he said, his tone polite yet firm, as if trying to reason with a stranger.
His voice, his face, even the way he carried himself–it was Wesley. But the words didn’t make sense.
“You’re lying,” I hissed, my fists clenching at my sides.
“Look, lady,” he said carefully, taking a step back, “I’m sorry if you’re upset, but I don’t know you!”
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Before I could respond, another figure walked up to him–a woman. Her movement was fluid, practiced, like she’d walked into countless scenes like this and always known her lines.
It was her.
The woman from the video.
She slid her arm through his like she belonged there. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she glanced between us. “Is everything okay?” she asked, her voice sugary sweet!
Rage boiled inside me.
“You,” I spat, my body trembling as I took a step forward. Every ounce of fury I’d suppressed erupted all at once, boiling over without warning.
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- Pourts
“What’s your problem?” the woman snapped, feigning confusion with an air of defiance.
I lunged at her, unable to stop myself. She let out a shriek, struggling to back away, but before I could reach her, Wesley–or whoever he was stepped between us, grabbing my arms firmly but without malice.
“Stop!” he ordered, his voice loud enough to cut through the chaos. His grip steadied me without crossing into aggression, but I pulled against him, glaring through furious tears.
“You’re going to act like you don’t know me?” I shouted, my frustration spilling out in shaky breaths.
“Wesley,” the woman said sharply, cutting me off. “Why does she keep calling you that?” Turning to me, her expression shifted, a mix
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of irritation and genuine confusion. “My boyfriend’s name is Thaddeus.”
Her words hit like a freight train.
I froze, the fight draining from my body as the air was stolen from my lungs.
What?
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