Page 46 of Things We Fake
Swallowing hard, I forced myself to read the caption underneath:
Omega Software CEO Cameron Jones and his latest conquest, teacher Susanne Morelli, were spotted enjoying themselves Saturday night at Nick’s Steakhouse. The happy couple were definitely celebrating something. Later that night, the two lovebirds were photographed in front of Ms. Morelli’s building, sharing a steamy kiss before disappearing inside together. Do we hear wedding bells in the future? Stay tuned for more.
I closed the paper with a shaky hand. My mind was blank and racing all at once. Someone had followed us last night. Someone had watched and waited and turned what had been—at least for me—a magical night into tabloid fodder.
“Oh my God.”
I stared down at the paper again, willing it to change or to just vanish. My brain shut down, rebooted, refused to process. This had to be a dream. Some vivid, ridiculous, wine-fueled hallucination.
I squeezed my eyes shut, counting to three. When I opened them again, the headline and the damning pictures were still there, real and merciless.
Panic flooded me and my fingers started to tremble.
My name.
My face.
Splashed across the Sunday edition.
School policy.
Morality clause.
The words spun through my mind in a rising tornado.
The breath I’d been holding whooshed out in a rush.
“This isn’t real. It’s got to be some kind of prank, right? It’s not the real New York Weekender. Maybe it’s one of those fake souvenir papers people make for birthdays or weddings.” I was talking faster, barely aware of what I was saying. “My dad buys the Weekender every Sunday—does the crossword puzzle before he even touches his coffee. He’s more committed to it than he is to Pastor Joe’s sermons. He might skip the society page, but Mom won’t. She reads every scrap of gossip, and you can bet she’ll spot my face from ten feet away.”
I scanned the photos again, as if looking harder might change them. “And Mrs. West? Oh God, she’ll see it. Probably everyone at school will.” I pressed a hand to my forehead. “They spelled out my name. I’msupposed to keep a low profile, Cam. No scandals, no drama, and definitely no photos in tabloids.”
I barely registered Cam moving until he took the paper from my trembling hands and tossed it onto the couch.
“Susanne, breathe.” His voice cut through the panic, steady and firm, grounding me. He pulled me down onto the cushion beside him, his hands closing gently around mine. “Look at me. It’s going to be okay. I got you into this, and I swear, I’ll find a way to fix it. Whatever it takes.”
I stared at him, dragging in a ragged breath. His calm was an anchor I clung to in the storm.
“I wish I could tell you it’s fake,” he said quietly. “But it’s the real deal. It’s today’s early edition—the same one your parents will probably pick up. And my mom too,” he added with a grimace. “She’s a Weekender crossword junkie.”
I swallowed hard, trying to tamp down the wave of terror rising in my chest.
“Sebastian went out early this morning and grabbed a copy for the plane,” Cam said. “I was flipping through it while I had my coffee and saw this.”
“You read the society page?”
He scoffed. “Hell no. I was looking for the sports section.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair, then lifted his gaze to mine. His expression was wrecked with guilt. “I’m so sorry, Sue. If I could take it back, I would.”
I sat very still for a moment, counting my heartbeats. I took several deep breaths to steady myself,reread the caption, and started thinking out loud, going into damage control mode.
“Okay. Worst case scenario.” I forced the words out through the tightness in my throat. “My mom will see it—and at least she’ll believe I wasn’t lying about having a boyfriend. But the picture of us kissing in front of my building...”
I pressed my hand to my mouth, nausea curling in my gut. “If anyone at school sees this...” My voice broke. “Cam, I’m not supposed to have my face splashed over a tabloid column. Parents could make noise about this. I could lose my job.”
I could feel my whole future tilting under me like an unsteady floorboard.
“Who even took that picture?” I rasped. “Do you really think it was Brittany? Did she follow us last night and... and leak this to the paper?”
“That would be my guess,” he said grimly. “Charlotte Muir writes the Around Town column. She and Brittany are thick as thieves.”
