Chapter 2

Ally Gomez POV:

I moved through the apartment like a ghost, my limbs heavy, my mind a hollowed-out cavern. Every object was a monument to a lie. The books Branson had recommended, the records Hanson had played during our nights together, the single, perfect rose in a vase on the nightstand-a gift from \"Branson\" that morning.

My hands began to move, slow and mechanical at first, then with a frantic, desperate energy. I pulled a large black trash bag from the kitchen and began to purge.

Books went in first, their pages filled with promises I now knew were empty. Then the records, their vinyl sleeves slick under my touch. The cashmere blanket he-no, Hanson-loved to wrap around us. The photograph on the nightstand, of me and Branson smiling at a university gala, a picture of perfect, calculated deceit. It all went into the bag. My treasures. My life. My mistakes.

I was on my knees, pulling out a drawer of his-their-things when the front door clicked open.

\"Ally?\"

Hanson' s voice. But it was tuned to Branson' s frequency-softer, more concerned. The voice of my daytime boyfriend.

He walked into the bedroom and stopped, his eyes taking in the scene. The overflowing trash bag, the stripped bed, my tear-ravaged face.

\"Baby, what is all this?\" he asked, stepping forward. He was the perfect imitation. The worried frown, the gentle tone. A masterpiece of deception.

I slowly got to my feet, my empty hands clenched at my sides. I just stared at him, my eyes so raw and swollen they felt like open wounds. I wanted him to see the devastation. I wanted it to burn him.

\"Look familiar?\" I croaked, my voice a shredded whisper. I gestured to the trash bag. \"All the props from your little two-year play. You can take them with you when you leave.\"

A flicker of something-surprise? confusion?-crossed his face before it was smoothed away, replaced by that practiced concern. He ignored my words, stepping closer to cup my face in his hands. His thumb gently stroked my cheek.

\"Your eyes are so red,\" he murmured. \"Did you cry all day? I told you I' d handle the video. It' s been taken down from most sites. Don' t worry anymore. I' ll take care of you. You don' t even have to finish school. I' ll support you.\"

The words, meant to be comforting, were a cascade of fresh insults. I' ll support you. The casual, arrogant offer of a gilded cage now that they had broken my wings. My nails dug into my palms, the sharp pain a welcome anchor in the swirling vortex of my despair.

He leaned in, his lips brushing my forehead, then my temple. His scent, a familiar mix of expensive cologne and something uniquely his, a scent I used to find intoxicating, now turned my stomach.

\"I missed you,\" he whispered, his arms sliding around my waist, pulling me against him.

The moment his body touched mine, a violent, full-body revulsion seized me. My skin felt like it was crawling. My stomach churned, and bile rose in my throat. This body, this man, who I thought was the love of my life, was a stranger. A liar. A performer who had used me as a stand-in for another woman.

With a strength I didn't know I possessed, I shoved him away. Hard.

He stumbled back, genuine surprise finally breaking through his mask. \"Ally? What' s wrong?\"

\"I' m... not feeling well,\" I mumbled, turning away so he couldn' t see the disgust on my face. It was the only excuse my shattered mind could conjure.

He stared at me for a few seconds, his gaze sharp and assessing. Then, a slow, easy smile spread across his lips. \"Okay,\" he said, his voice dropping to that low, intimate purr I knew so well. \"You rest. I' ll go take a cold shower.\"

I watched him disappear into the bathroom, his casual acceptance a testament to how little he truly cared about my feelings, as long as his end goal was met. I resumed my task, my movements numb and robotic. Erase them. Erase every trace.

Later, he slid into bed beside me, his skin cool and damp. He turned off the light, plunging the room into the familiar darkness where our charade always played out. His arm wrapped around me from behind, his hand settling on my stomach. His lips found the back of my neck.

I lay there, rigid as a corpse, enduring the touch that had once been my greatest solace. It felt like a violation. Each kiss was a brand, each caress an act of desecration on the memory of what I thought was love.

I must have drifted into a state of sheer exhaustion, because I was hovering on the edge of consciousness when I heard it. A soft, breathy murmur against my ear, spoken in a moment of unguarded intimacy.

\"Kennedy...\"

My eyes snapped open in the darkness. My entire body went rigid. The blood in my veins turned to ice and flowed backward, straight to my heart, freezing it solid.

He thought I was her. In the dark, in the throes of a passion that was never meant for me, he had called out her name.

I shoved him again, this time with a strangled gasp, scrambling away from him to the far edge of the bed. \"Get off me!\"

He propped himself up on an elbow, the shadows masking his expression. \"Hey, what is it?\" he asked, his voice thick with sleep and thwarted desire.

\"Don' t touch me,\" I choked out, my voice trembling with a new, deeper layer of horror.

He sighed, a sound of weary tolerance. \"Fine, fine,\" he said, as if placating a difficult child. \"I' ll be good. Just let me hold you.\" He shuffled closer, pulling me back against his chest.

I was trapped. I lay there, stiff and unmoving, as silent tears streamed from my eyes, soaking the pillowcase. I endured his touch, the feel of his skin, the sound of his breathing, forcing myself to stay still, to breathe, to survive until morning. The revulsion was a physical thing, a living creature clawing at me from the inside out.

When I woke, the space beside me was empty. Of course it was. \"Branson\" never stayed the night. He had classes. He had a pristine reputation to maintain. He had to be seen walking to his 8 a.m. economics lecture with Kennedy Kaufman.

The pieces clicked into place with horrifying clarity. Why he never walked me to class. Why our public life and private life were so completely separate. It wasn' t discretion. It was logistics.

I dragged my aching body out of bed and went to the university, my mind set on one thing: filing the paperwork for my withdrawal. It was the only thing I had left to control.

I had just stepped onto campus when a classmate, Sarah, ran up to me, her face pale with urgency.

\"Ally! Thank God I found you,\" she panted. \"Professor Albright is looking for you. He said it' s an emergency. He' s in his office.\"

A cold dread settled in the pit of my stomach. Professor Albright was my thesis advisor. An emergency? After everything that had already happened, I couldn' t imagine what could be worse.

But I was about to find out.