rry my high school sweetheart, Ryan Morris, he

om the road, hi

I can't. I

can't? I'm waiting for

s in a huge crisis. She nee

ce. Ten years of my life, ten years of supporting his dreams, cooking his meals, pay

bags. My godparents had a long-standing offer for me to study in Paris,

in New Orleans, owners of a hotel and real estate empire. I knew of them through my godparents, who had connections to the f

lyn Blakely, three months pregnant with our first child, here for Andrew' s grandfather'

New Orleans air, a familiar sting in my nose. A driver was su

And I saw the

Mor

of features I used to know. He was with another valet, a younge

A flicker of disbelief, then a slow,

ok what the cat dragg

s the famous ex you told me about,

lat shoes. He clearly didn't recognize the quality of the fabric or the

back?" he asked, his voice dripping with condescension. "Tough

er. "But I'll tell you what. Sabrina needs a personal cook

ver me. The years of pain had burned away, l

ank you

f the emotion he expected.

weet smile and cold eyes walked up and

" she asked, her eyes fli

" Ryan said, puffing out his chest. "Down

ommissioned from a famous Parisian jeweler. He' d even featured it on the Blakely Corporation's social media, a teaser for th

us, clearly recognized it. But she couldn't reco

ne with a cheap knock-off? I saw the real one on the Blakelys' Instagram. You th

t to grab it.

t tou

points. "She's trying to pass herself off as

ng for the locket. I twisted away, bu

ng a scene

d airport floor. A sharp pain shot through my abdomen, and a wave of fear washed over

thing in Ryan' s eyes-shock, maybe even con

n, are you okay? She

ately. He helped her up, fussing over he

bling with a mixture of rage and fear. I looked at the three of them-Ryan, the narcissi

my back on them, walked away,

I told the driver, my

huddled together, laughing. They thought they had