Savannah

Another day, another performance in this carefully constructed theater of lies.

Of everything I’ve had to endure, nothing tested my self-control more than watching Dean move around like the perfect, doting fiancé to my sister. The backyard was a haze of summer heat and charcoal smoke. A Bluetooth speaker blared a mix of Motown and old rock—Marvin Gaye melting into the Rolling Stones—and everyone was grooving as if the world were perfect.

Aunt Thelma swayed to the beat while carrying plates of burgers. Alyssa was singing along to "Dancing Queen," lost in some high school memory. For a second, I almost smiled.

Then Dean twirled Chloe.

The guests gushed, their attention snapping to the "golden couple" like iron filings to a magnet. I groaned, crushing my third soda can of the afternoon. Seeing his smug happiness made my mind wander to dark places—fantasizing about exactly how I’d like to ruin his perfect, smiling tableau right here in front of everyone.

Dean’s family was there, too—the whole hateful clan, blending into the picture-perfect scene. Chloe, who usually hated the smell of grease clinging to her designer perfume, was all sunshine and giggles today. She was busy doing TikTok dances with Emily for the views, her perfect veneers flashing for Dean every time he dapped her forehead with a napkin.

The fool.

Me? I was parked in the corner, playing the role of the bitter maid of honor to perfection.

Across the yard, Roman blended in with terrifying ease. One hand in his pocket, a beer in the other, he was charming my dad and Uncle Jace with stories of court cases and fishing trips. Even Dean’s mother seemed enchanted by him. It was diabolical how well he could manipulate a room.

He caught me staring and gave me a subtle wink. My stomach did that treacherous little flip—the one that reminded me I wasn't as immune to him as I pretended to be. I looked away, only to find a far less welcome presence.

"There you are. I’ve been looking for you."

I didn't need to turn around. I knew that voice. Dean.

"What do you want?" I hissed, eyes fixed on the horizon. If I looked at his face, I might actually lose my grip on reality.

"You're not joining the fun, Sav?" His voice oozed a sickening kind of smugness.

"I'm here, aren't I?"

He chuckled. "Believe it or not, I still care about you. A lot."

That made me turn. "Really? Is that why you lied to my family after harassing me? Is that your version of a love letter?"

"You can't blame me for being drawn to you," he whispered, his eyes dark with a twisted kind of pride.

"I seduced you?" I nearly choked on the words. "You and Chloe set me up for humiliation, and then you tried to corner me! How am I the one to blame?"

"It was a harmless prank," he dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "Your sister loves you too much to truly ruin you."

The nerve of this man. He was standing here, acting as if he wasn't blackmailing my fiancé with a stolen moment from our past. My hands shook with suppressed rage. I wanted to scream the truth to the entire backyard—to tell them what kind of monster they were celebrating. But I knew Chloe always won. Dean would defend her, and I would be the "obsessive ex" again.

I glanced at Roman. He was watching us now, his eyes tracking the interaction with a predatory stillness that helped me swallow my venom.

"You lied to Chloe," I said. "How do you live with that?"

He leaned in closer. "You've never hidden the truth to protect someone you want?"

I squeezed the can in my hand until it buckled. "You have a lot of nerve."

"Do you always have to make a scene?" he countered, his smirk deepening. "You're just bitter, Sav. A bitter, beautiful liar. You orchestrated this whole 'fiancé' charade just to get my attention. It’s obsessive, really."

I laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. "Still clinging to your delusions?"

"They aren't delusions if I have the proof," he insisted. He pulled out his phone, scrolling through it with a casualness that made my skin crawl.

Mom and Aunt Janice were laughing by the grill, the flames licking upward as fat dripped onto the coals. The table was sagging under potato salad and deviled eggs. It looked like a normal family Saturday, but I felt like I was standing on a landmine.

"Get lost, Dean," I snapped. "Why do you even care who I'm with?"

"I’m trying to open your eyes. Roman isn't who you think he is." He didn't look up from his screen.

"You're really pushing it," I said, my voice tight.

"Aha! Found it." His grin was pure, cold satisfaction.

I braced for some pathetic reaching—a lie or a manipulated photo. But his voice was too steady. A cold knot of panic began to tighten in my chest.

"If Roman is so in love with you..." Dean turned the phone toward me, his eyes gleaming with malice. "Then how do you explain this?"

I looked down at the screen. And my stomach didn't just drop—it bottomed out.