Chapter 50
I groan and shove a pillow over my face. I cannot deal with him right now.
Liam chuckles, shifting closer until his warmth seeps into my skin. He tugs at the pillow, but I stubbornly hold on.
“You’re blushing,” he teases.
“I am not.”
“You so are.”
I
groan even louder. “I hate you.”
He hums, like he’s thinking. “No, you don’t.”
I peek out from the pillow, only to find him watching me with something dangerous in his eyes. Something warm and intense that makes my pulse stutter.
“You love me,” he says, his voice teasing.
I stop breathing.
Liam doesn’t take it back. He doesn’t laugh it off or try to brush past it.
Instead, he does something even more frustrating-he changes the subject completely, like he knows my brain is short-circuiting and wants to spare me the internal meltdown.
“Do you feel better?”
I nod, relieved to move on, but the momentary peace shatters as my mind drifts back to the article.
The words are already on my tongue. “Wan-”
But I stop myself. Because I know what he’s about to ask.
And I know I have to say it first.
“I’m not her.”
I don’t explain. I don’t justify it. I just put the words out there, raw and simple.
Liam doesn’t push. Doesn’t prod. Doesn’t demand details.
He just nods. “Okay.”
I blink. That’s it?
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I turn to look at him, searching his face for any sign of doubt. “You’re not going to question me? Ask why I’m faking
my
entire identity? Why I’m stupid enough to run away from a billion-dollar inheritance?”
Liam just raises an eyebrow, completely unfazed. “You said you’re not her, so you’re not. Simple.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he keeps going.
“You’re who you think you are. Who you want to be. Who you accept. Nothing more, nothing less.”
My breath catches.
“Don’t let anyone define you or tell you how to define yourself, love.” His voice is calm but firm, like he’s telling me a fact, not just trying to make me feel better. “I told you this yesterday. Remember?”
And I do.
His words from before echo in my head, wrapping around me like a lifeline.
“You’re who you are. Nothing else. Nothing more. Whatever anyone thinks? That’s their problem. Only the truth mat-
ters.”
I swallow hard, something thick and unsteady settling in my chest.
He believes me. No hesitation. No conditions. No ‘if that’s what you want me to think.’
Just trust.
Liam sees me. The version of myself I’m still struggling to accept. The version I’m scared to claim.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m running.
“Okay.”
Liam leans back, completely unbothered. “Besides, trusting everything on social media is stupid. They think I’m this emotionless playboy.”
I raise an eyebrow. “And you’re not?”
He pauses, tilting his head like he’s actually considering it. Then, with a small shrug, he says, “It’s fifty-fifty. I make sure the girls I’m involved with know I don’t want anything serious. Sometimes they think they can change my mind, so I guess I’m at fault too.”
His honesty is disarming. There’s no cocky smirk or teasing grin, just a simple truth.
Something about that makes my stomach twist.
“Did Jessica think that too?”
The second her name leaves my lips, his expression shifts. It’s brief-just a flicker of something unreadable—but I
catch it.
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Then he exhales, a slow, bitter smile curling at the edges of his lips. “Jess is different. She doesn’t count.”
That green, ugly thing in my chest tightens. Different? How different?
I shouldn’t care. I really shouldn’t.
But I do.
I want to ask. I want to dig, to pull the answer out of him, to figure out why the mention of her name dims something
in his eyes.
But before I can, a knock at the door shatters the moment.
LIAM
Is this what people mean by saved by the bell?
Because in no universe do I want to talk about what Jess means to me right now. Not with Emilia. Not when I can’t even explain the dark, ugly feeling that sank its claws into my chest the second I saw that headline. The second Emil- ia broke down in my arms.
Like there wasn’t a damn thing I wouldn’t do to make whoever wrote that article pay.
And they will pay. Even if it’s the last thing I do.
I push off the bed and grab the chocolate-stained containers from Emilia’s hands. I can’t help but smirk. She eats like a chipmunk, cheeks puffed, a little smear of chocolate at the corner of her mouth. The sight makes something tight in my chest loosen just a little.
Knock. Knock.
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