Silence.

“He said I was just nervous and then he uh—” I wince at the thought of him sliding into me all at once, him muffling my mouth with his hand and telling me to, “Calm down and take this dick.”

“He fucked without any mercy, and he didn’t care that I was crying. ” I can barely get the words out. “He left the room for champagne but I couldn’t be there anymore, so I walked across the street to stay someplace else for the night.”

He lets out a soft sigh.

“The only time he looked into my eyes was when he said his ex’s name,” I say. “The rest of the time, he was—” I can’t even finish my sentence.

“I need to sleep this off so I can start forgetting about it as soon as possible. Can you tell Travis that I’ll need a raincheck for our video call over breakfast tomorrow? I’d really appreciate that.”

“Penelope, wait.”

I end the call. I don’t want him to hear me cry, and I’ve held back long enough.

Once I’m sure that the hallway crowd has gone, I return to the elevator bank. Then I turn off my phone before stepping inside.

I double-check the room number on the key packet and anxiously watch the numbers tick by as the car rises.

The moment the doors glide open, I rush down the hall and lock myself inside the assigned room.

I collapse onto the bed, and the sobs wrack my body in waves. Shutting my eyes, I try to fall asleep, but it’s no use.

You’re still a foolish, foolish girl.

I can’t stop replaying the past hour, and I know it’ll leave a scar on my brain for the rest of my life. There’s no point in giving him an ex-boyfriend title because I don’t want to remember him at all.

Sniffling, I wipe my eyes with the corner of a blanket and dial room service. I order two bottles of water that I don’t really want and a carafe of coffee that I don’t need.

Several minutes later, a loud knock comes at the door.

I grab a few dollars before walking over to open it.

There’s no room service attendant on the other side, though.

Hayden?

I wait for him to look at me like I’m deranged, but there’s sincerity and sympathy in his eyes.

He cups my face in his hands and presses his forehead against mine, but he doesn’t say a word.

“He said his ex-girlfriend’s name when he came. He said it twice.” I can’t help but replay that part. “What the fuck is wrong with me, Hayden? Why can’t I find a decent guy?”

He doesn’t give me an answer. Instead, he gently runs his fingers through my hair, pressing a kiss against my skin. Then he pulls me into his arms and holds me close.

I fight to hold back more tears, but it’s no use.

Without judgment, he walks me over to the bed. Pulling me against his chest, he kisses my forehead a few more times and tightens his grip around me.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “It’s okay.”

He stays the entire night, holding me through every shed tear.

When the sun filters through the blinds the following morning, Hayden runs me a warm bubble bath.

I resist getting out of the bed to take it, so he slides his hands under my legs and carries me into the bathroom.

A complete gentleman, he undresses me down to my bra and panties—all while keeping his eyes on mine.

“I think you can take off the rest yourself,” he says, whispering. “If not, I’m right outside.”

When he shuts the door, I peel off my panties and bra, and I take my time slipping under the warm suds.

I expect him to be gone by the time I get out since I take over two hours to soak, but he’s there in the bed once I open the door.

Moving next to him, I lean against his chest, and he wraps his arms around me again.

He stays with me another night.

On Monday morning, I sit up in the bed alone. The drapes are pulled open, and there’s a note on the pillow next to me.

Stepped out to pick up some breakfast.

-Hayden

P.S.—Told Travis that you decided to spend the weekend hanging out with Tatiana.

(Couldn’t come up with anything else, but he bought that shit. :-) )

I laugh and grab my cell phone from the nightstand. I scroll down in search of Joshua’s name so I can let him know how awful he’s made me feel, but it’s not there.

He’s not listed in my texts or recent calls, and when I manually type his number, an “Error: Not Allowed” message appears.

What the heck?

The door to the room opens, and Hayden walks inside carrying two brown bags.

“Good. You’re up,” he says. “I’ll let you choose which bagel stack you want.”

“What did you do to my phone? I can’t contact Joshua.”

“Cinnamon or regular?” He ignores my question.

“Cinnamon.”

“Okay.” He opens a bag and takes his time setting a tray in front of me.

I can’t help but notice that there are cuts and bruises all over his knuckles. Cuts and bruises that weren’t there last night or the night before.

“What happened to your hands?”

“It’s nothing.” He hands me a fork. “I just hit them on someone stupid.”

“Someone or something?”

He doesn’t answer that question either. He fluffs the pillow behind my head and hands me a fruit cup.

“Hayden, what happened?”

“I was looking out for you,” he says.

Then he changes the subject, giving me a look that lets me know that the ship for the previous conversation has sailed. “Let’s talk about your next competition. It’s in North Carolina, right?”

Twenty-Five

Present Day

Hayden

Simon Gaines was a fucking fraud.

The evidence lay ahead of me in black and white, and the numbers didn't lie.

The lengths he’d taken to craft his persona were enough to fill a nine-hundred-page novel, but no sane author would ever pen a story with a plot this insane. (Then again, he was also a “New York Times bestseller,” according to his website, so perhaps he was borrowing a storyline from one of his nonexistent books.)

In addition to renting his Ferrari, his watches, and his suits, he dated a different woman in every city (five and counting), with a complementing wardrobe and personality to match.

In Los Angeles, he was a doting widower dating a nurse named Shelby. In Las Vegas, he climbed mountains and led spiritual yoga sessions with a thrill-seeking woman named Ana. In Indiana, he moonlighted as a part-time stock bro who “hated the thought” of spending weekends away from his girlfriend Yasmine.

The variations of his last name—Gines, Gains, Giannis, were adjusted sufficiently enough to maintain his ruse and keep his lies protected.

If he were any other boyfriend, I would immediately call Penelope and tell her what I’d found. I would say, “We need to talk about your boyfriend. You’ll need to break up with him tonight.”

But in this case, I needed to take a different approach because I wanted her to do more than break up with him.