Chapter Thirty-Three: Fake News

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Fuck

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Fuck.

Fucking shit.

A chill rushed down my spine, cooling the scorching blood that had blazed through my veins in anger earlier on. I stared at the screen, unable to meet the pair of eyes I'd grown so familiar with over the past few weeks—the ones I'd looked into during times of laughter, passion, and affection.

While I tried to fit together the jigsaw pieces, Teddy continued.

"You should have stuck to blogging, Sophia. Every good journalist checks their sources, and you could have very quickly found out that my past with drugs was fictional. I've lost count of the number of times I've told journalists that I've never taken drugs. I mean, I knew you weren't a fan, but I thought you'd have at least checked that your bullshit articles contained some degree of truth."

His language caught me off guard, startling my gaze away from the screen and up to meet his stony expression. I'd never heard him swear outside the bedroom before, and it hurt me more than it should have done. With his jaw set in a hard line, tension radiating from every pore of his body in icy waves, he was almost unrecognisable.

"Why would I have researched it when you'd told me the story yourself? You said everyone knew about your past with drugs."

"Exactly. Because I was hoping you'd fall for it and not bother doing the research if it was supposedly common knowledge. Actually, no, that's a lie. I was hoping you wouldn't reveal it at all. That you were as trustworthy as I wanted you to be."

Dark eyes pinned me to the sofa, lacking the warmth or twinkle or smoulder that they usually contained whenever he looked at me. My heart thudded in my chest, but not from the anticipation or excitement he often ignited. In just a few seconds, the dynamic between us had shifted. It didn't matter that we were two people who knew each other intimately—we might as well have been strangers.

"Did you only bring me here so you could see the look on my face when you called me out? Lull me into a false sense of security with some bullshit about a staged photo?" I asked, but my trembling voice betrayed my attempt at righteousness.

Sighing, he leaned back against the sofa cushions, crossing his arms, that detached stare never leaving my own.

"Partly," he said with a shrug of one shoulder, "but mostly because I wanted to see the look on your face when I tell you that you're not the only one who's been hiding their true motive behind this so-called friendship." He raised his hands to air-quote the word, just in case I missed the obvious sarcasm in his tone.

I narrowed my eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"The photo with Lacey was staged, and it was initially intended as a publicity stunt. But instead it turned into one last attempt to flush you out. I even wore the same clothes so it looked as real as possible. And you fell for it. I wish I wasn't so angry and upset. I have no right to be. I should only be disappointed that I fell for your game plan just as much as you fell for mine."

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