Chapter 4 —The Other Side Of The Dream

• Emily's POV
• The night Julian asked me to be his girlfriend officially I had stood in front of my mirror for ten minutes rehearsing how to sound casual about it, like it was something I needed to consider, like my entire body was not screaming yes the second the words left his mouth.
• I made him wait three days, which Vanessa said was sensible and Eva said was criminal and Diana said she would have said yes before he finished the sentence.
• Life changed the moment I said yes.
• Things between Julian and I had been good, genuinely good, the kind of good that made you stop mid-morning and smile at nothing in particular.
• We talked every day, saw each other as often as his schedule allowed, and the easy warmth that had been there from the very first phone call had not gone anywhere. If anything it had deepened. I was happy in a way that felt solid rather than fragile, the kind you did not have to convince yourself of.
• The world did not take long to notice.
• The headlines came in waves. "Julian Styles spotted with mystery woman in Starlight Bay. Mystery woman identified as Star Beat Media reporter Emily Blackwood."
• The media got progressively less mysterious about me and progressively more interested in pulling me apart, my background, my appearance, my suitability, as though I had submitted an application somewhere and they were reviewing it on the public's behalf.
• I tried not to read them. I mostly failed.
• Mr Mason called me into his office on a Tuesday morning with the particular energy he had when he smelled opportunity.
• "You are trending," he said, sliding his phone across the desk. "Lean into it. Interviews, podcast appearances, use the visibility while it is here because it is not permanent."
• He was not wrong. I nodded and walked back to my desk and thought about how strange it was that the thing making me professionally relevant had nothing to do with my actual work.
• The office noticed. Coworkers who had barely acknowledged me for months were suddenly very friendly, smiles that did not reach their eyes. Others did not bother pretending at all.
• I heard it once from two colleagues who did not know I was outside the break room door.
• "She is only getting those bookings because of him."
• "Obviously. She was invisible six months ago."
• I walked in, poured my coffee, smiled at both of them like I had heard nothing, and went back to my desk. I was good at my job. That did not stop mattering just because some people had decided to stop seeing it.
• My mornings at Julian's had started to feel like routine, up before him, dressed in the quiet, out the door while he was still asleep. It was one of those mornings that everything unravelled.
• I was almost at the office when I realised I had left my printed interview notes at his place. Three pages of research I could not walk in without. I turned the car around, told myself I would only be a few minutes.
• The front door was unlocked. I let myself in, found the notes and was turning to leave when I heard it.
• A sound from upstairs.
• It came again, low and unmistakable, and my stomach dropped so fast it felt physical, a cold weight settling below my ribs that did not move.
• I went up the stairs slowly, one hand on the banister, the sound getting clearer with every step, and I reached the top and walked down the hallway and pushed the bedroom door open.
• Two women. His bed. His hands. His voice.
• I recognised them both immediately. They were from Club Velour, the same club Julian and I had been to together two weeks ago. He had kept his hand on my waist the entire night, pulling me close, making me feel like the only woman in the room.
• Turned out he had been paying attention to more than just me that night.
• Then one of them shifted and Julian looked up and saw me in the doorway. Everything stopped.
• "Emily." He was already pulling away, already reaching for the sheets, panic written all over his face. "Emily wait, this is not what it looks like, just wait."
• I looked at him. Then at them. Then back at him.
• "Julian," I said, my voice so calm it surprised even me, "what exactly does it look like then."
• "They mean nothing." He was off the bed now, sheet around him, stepping toward me. "I swear they mean absolutely nothing, it was one stupid mistake, Emily please just let me explain."
• "Do not come any closer," I said.
• He stopped.
• "Those are the women from Velour," I said. "The same night you held my hand the entire way to the car."
• "Emily I love you, you know I love you, this had nothing to do with that, please just give me one minute."
• I looked at him one last time, standing there with his sheet and his excuses, and I felt nothing except the clean, final sensation of a door closing somewhere inside me.
• I walked down the stairs, picked up my bag, and left without making a sound.
• He called before I reached my car. I declined it. I drove with no destination and when I finally stopped I was outside my apartment with my hands still on the wheel and nothing left in my chest.
• When I picked up he was already talking. They meant nothing, it was a mistake, he loved me, please just listen.
• "I am done," I said, and hung up.
• ***
• I meant it when I said it. I meant it for four days.
• Julian did not stop calling. Vanessa told me exactly what I knew she would, that I deserved better, that a man like that had never taken me seriously.
• I sat on her couch and nodded and believed every single word and still could not stop checking my phone hoping it was him. Eva showed up on the fifth day with food and said nothing about it, which was its own kind of mercy.
• On the seventh day he sent a voice note. I sat with it unplayed for two hours. Then I played it.
• His voice was quieter than I had ever heard it, no performance in it at all. He was not asking me to pretend it had not happened. He just needed me to know that what was between us was real, that it had always been real, and that he would spend however long it took proving that if I let him.
• I called Vanessa. She said, "whatever you decide, just make sure you are deciding for yourself and not because his voice sounds a certain way on a voice note."
• It was good advice. The kind I would have given someone else.
• I picked up the phone and called him back. He answered on the first ring like he had been sitting with it in his hand, and when I heard his voice I almost talked myself out of it again. Almost.
• "I am not saying it is okay," I told him. "I am saying I am listening."
• He took it. Whatever I was willing to give him he took it carefully, and we found our way back to each other slowly, the way you do when something has cracked and you are not yet sure if it will hold.
• A month passed and life settled into something that almost resembled normal. I told myself we were finding our footing again, that trust was something you rebuilt slowly. I almost believed it on most days.
• I was still trying to figure out what we were rebuilding and what we were pretending was not broken when Mr Mason stopped by my desk one morning before I had even taken my coat off.
• He slid a folder across the desk. "I have been trying to get this interview for months. NFL post-game access, the most sought after slot in Starlight Bay sports coverage right now, and his team has stonewalled every outlet that has gone after it.
• We finally got through." He paused for effect the way he always did when he wanted you to understand the weight of something. "This is big for Star Beat, Emily. The kind of coverage that puts us ahead of every competing outlet in this city."
• "I understand," I said.
• "Good. Now I am giving it to you because you are sharp and you do not rattle easily, and right now that is exactly what this requires." He leaned back in his chair.
• "He is not warm with reporters. Zero patience for press, no interest in being charming, and his team will pull the slot the second they feel like we are wasting his time. You go in there professional, cheerful, and you stay that way regardless of how he receives you. Do not let him shake you."
• "I can handle that," I said, and the words came out steady even though nothing inside me felt steady at all.
• I took the folder, walked back to my desk, and stared at the name on the brief. A difficult man, a job that still needed doing, a life that still needed living regardless of what was quietly unravelling underneath it.
• It was my job. The one thing that had always belonged entirely to me.
• "Avery Wright," Mr Mason had said. "NFL champion."