Chapter 1My boyfriend's Grammy acceptance speech? A love confession—to my mom's killer.
Tyler Cross, golden boy of the year, grinning ear to ear: "This one's for the love of my life."
Today's our eighth anniversary. He forgot.
Reporter: "Who's 'Homebound' about?"
"The girl I'd die for."
My heart stops.
Eight years I loved him in silence.
"Bravest thing you ever did for her?"
"Eighteen, broke as hell—stole thirty K when her heart gave out. Had to save her."
My blood turns to ice. The room spins.
That was Mom's surgery money. She died waiting for a transplant that never came.
He's her hero. I'm his dirty secret.
Mom died alone because he chose her.
I'm done being the pathetic fool.
He wants his fairy tale?
I'll burn it to ashes.
The TV's still playing.
"Thirty K's a lot of cash. You ever think twice?"
Tyler doesn't even hesitate.
"Best money I ever spent. I'd do it a thousand times over."
The reporter's practically swooning: "So you and this mystery girl—still together?"
His whole face lights up like Christmas morning.
"She's everything. Always has been."
Each word hits like a slap. I'm choking on air.
I'm sitting right here in his lap, body going numb.
That year Mom's kidneys shut down. The surgery fund we'd been scraping together for months—vanished overnight.
She waited outside the OR for three days. Begging. Praying. That money never came.
Right before she died, she grabbed our hands with what little strength she had left:
"Tyler, baby—take care of my girl. You hear me?"
"The thirty thousand." My throat's closing up. "Was that her money?"
Barely a whisper but it tears through me like screaming.
Tyler's fingers go still in my hair.
Then he laughs. Actually fucking laughs.
"Smart girl."
"How?"
I'm falling apart. Vision blurring.
"She loved you! Every meal she cooked, every shirt on your back, every tuition check—you were hers! And when she was dying she made you swear you'd—"
I can't even finish.
When Mom died, Tyler collapsed at her bedside, ugly crying:
"I promise, Mom. I'll take care of her forever. I swear to God."
I thought I'd won the lottery finding him.
"Yeah, so?"
His voice yanks me back.
"She's dead. Can't change that. So what do you want—a time machine? What's the point of this?"
What do I want?
I want that money back in our account.
I want Mom alive.
I want these eight years to mean literally anything.
"I've been damn good to you, so let's not pretend otherwise."
He's got that cocky half-smirk going.
"Dive bars every night, five shit jobs at once—all to keep you in school. Then I made you my manager, handed you my career on a silver platter. Money, time, my whole heart—you got it all."
"So maybe don't act like you're the victim here when you've had it pretty fucking easy."
"Your heart?"
I'm laughing and crying at the same time and I sound insane.
"You never loved me. Not once. Every song—every single one—they're hers. Admit it!"
He stares. Mouth opens.
Phone rings.
Answers before the second ring. Her voice comes through all breathy and helpless.
"Ty, I wanted to surprise you with those chestnuts but I'm lost and someone's following me—please I'm so scared—"
He's up. Moving.
"Lila, Jesus—you're supposed to be in bed. Stay right there. I'm coming."
Heads straight for the door.
I block him.
"Move."
"She's scared. I'm not leaving her out there."
I stand my ground.
"When my mom was dying alone in that hospital, where the fuck were you?!"
He cups my face. Wipes my tears like I'm a child throwing a tantrum.
"Last chance. Move."
I don't. Can't stop crying.
"Do you even feel bad? Just once—have you ever felt bad?!"
He's done talking. Shoves me aside—hard.
I crash into the couch, lower back smashing into the armrest. White-hot pain.
"Lila's got a stalker and a heart condition! Your mom mattered—so does she! Or are you saying her life means nothing?!"
"You're a fucking monster!"
He's silhouetted in the doorway now. Face completely shadowed.
I don't know him.
This isn't the guy who used to beg on his knees when I was upset.
This isn't the guy who held me through panic attacks.
This isn't the guy who sobbed at my mother's deathbed promising forever.
His footsteps fade down the hall.
I'm still on the couch. Back screaming. Heart shattered.
Two thousand nights together.
I really thought he'd protect me forever.
That guy's been dead for years.
Chapter 2
I look around at Tyler's carefully planned surprise for our eighth anniversary.
Cake. Wine. Balloons. Roses.
Five minutes ago, I thought I was the luckiest girl alive.
Now?
Just me and this suffocating silence.
Memories crash over me like a wave I can't escape.
I was thirteen when I found him digging through our apartment complex's dumpster.
Skin and bones. Clothes falling apart. Holding half a bagel I'd tossed that morning.
My chest hurt looking at him.
I walked over. Grabbed his hand.
"You hungry? Come home with me."
He looked up—terrified, hopeful—and nodded.
Mom cried when she saw him.
"Sweet boy. You live here now."
She fed him. Bought him clothes. Made him call me his sister.
Tyler was good to me.
Took beatings meant for me—still has scars on his back.
Gave me every birthday dollar he'd saved: "Get yourself something pretty."
When I won the science fair, he ran through our apartment screaming, "That's my genius! That's my girl!"
Then Mom died.
I cried until I passed out.
He held me, saying it over and over:
"I'm here. I'm not leaving. I promise."
He dropped out to work so I could stay in school.
Construction sites. Dishwashing. Late-night gigs at dive bars.
Sent money every month like clockwork, wouldn't even buy himself bottled water.
He really did it.
Ground himself to dust just to keep me standing.
And now?
Now he's famous. Finally wrote songs "for the love of my life."
Just not me.
I wipe my face and start packing.
Halfway through, I notice his laptop's still open on the table.
Messenger's up. Lila's thread.
I click it.
Months of Venmo receipts.
$5K. $10K. $20K.
I scroll back further.
The years we lived in that basement with no heat.
Ramen for dinner. Blankets instead of turning on the radiator.
But every single month, without fail—money to Lila.
Five grand. Ten grand. Never skipped one.
And Lila's social media?
Designer bags. Fresh manicures. Fancy restaurants.
Check-ins from Paris, Tokyo, Milan.
Her smile in every photo, captions reading:
[So much money. So much love.]
I keep reading.
Her: I want that Chanel bag soooo bad
Him: Get it
Her: babe it's like 30K
Him: Just booked a gig. Money's coming through soon. You'll have way nicer stuff, I promise
A gig.
That was the variety show. Three days of filming. He came back with his voice completely shot.
I made him pear soup for two weeks straight, worried sick.
He did it for a handbag.
And me?
I never bought myself anything over twenty bucks to save him money.
My hands cracked and bled every winter—couldn't afford lotion.
Worked extra shifts just to surprise him with new clothes and shoes.
I bite down hard on my lip but tears still fall, landing on my hands one by one.
I close the laptop. Zip up my suitcase. Take one last look at this place.
There's a photo of us on the wall.
He's smiling, arm around my shoulder.
I walk over, rip it down, and drop it in the trash.
Chapter 3
I check into a Motel 6.
Two AM. Can't sleep. Open Twitter.
Tyler's trending.
Top tweet—his interview clip.
Second tweet—video of him holding Lila in the rain.
Perfect cinematography. Water dripping off his hair. Her face pressed into his chest. Straight out of The Notebook.
Comments losing their minds.
"OMG is this THE girl?? I'm crying actual tears"
"Pure romance I CANNOT this is everything"
"Hold up didn't this guy make bank off parasocial girlfriend vibes? Now he's rubbing his relationship in our faces?"
"Didn't he have something with his manager? What's the tea?"
"LMAO she probably wishes. Tyler's just too sweet to fire her ass"
Phone vibrating nonstop.
My boss.
"Riley! His fanbase is built on girlfriend fantasy content! You didn't prep damage control, didn't suppress the hashtag, didn't do ANYTHING—what the fuck do we pay you for?!"
"The only reason you still have this job is because he keeps covering for you. You get that, right?!"
I say nothing.
"Fix it. Now. We got his approval—post a statement saying he's single."
I breathe in. Open Twitter.
Type. Hit send.
"Tyler is single and committed to his work. Thanks for the love."
Ninety seconds later, Tyler posts.
"Just to clarify—I'm in a relationship. My manager's statement doesn't speak for me. Don't twist this."
He just made me look like an idiot in front of millions.
My mentions blow up:
"HAHAHAHA manager got ratio'd into oblivion"
"Girl really thought she mattered lmaooo GO AWAY"
"Wait Tyler's actually a romance king?? I'M SCREAMING"
I scroll through every comment. Face frozen. Chest hollow.
Eight years.
I hid us to protect his career.
Underground. In the shadows. No light. No life.
No holding hands. No kissing in public. No photos together anywhere online.
Friends asking "So are you guys...?" Me smiling. Shaking my head no.
Paparazzi catching us at the same café? Me drafting denials at midnight.
Every time I told myself:
Once he's stable enough.
Once his career can handle it.
Eight years of waiting and he goes public with her. Gets showered with congratulations.
And me? I'm the joke.
Phone buzzes.
Tyler calling.
"I didn't want her getting torn apart online."
I actually laugh.
"So you let the label use me as the fall guy? Had me post a lie and then called me out for it?"
"Her heart gave out again. She can't take the pressure."
"Not my problem!"
He yells.
"She spent her whole childhood in a hospital bed! No family, no one who gave a shit! I'm all she's got! She's running out of time and you're really gonna make this about YOU?!"
"You're so fucking selfish!"
"Do your last job tomorrow and get out of my life!"
Her life cost my mom's. And I'm selfish?
Funny.
"Tyler Cross—should've left you in that dumpster!"
Click.
Dial tone.
