A Shot at Love

Foul Play

My heart drops as I take the manila envelope from Noah, our fingers barely brushing. A knot twists in my stomach. Do I even want to know what's inside?

I exhale sharply, shifting off Noah's lap and forcing my gaze to meet his. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes say everything. My pulse pounds in my ears as I fumble with the string closure. Just open it. With one last breath, I slide out the documents, bracing myself.

My eyes dart over the pages, and my jaw drops.

They're photos—of us.

Chest tight, I flip through them, each one landing like a blow.

San Francisco. In front of the 'So This Is Love' mural. Kissing.

My breath catches as I turn to the next.

In front of my mom's house.

At the gala.

Kissing again.

But the last photo sends a shiver down my spine. My hands tremble as I steady my breath. It's from our first date at The Polo Lounge. Not just a single shot—there are multiple.

Us inside at the bar, mid-laugh during our game of Two Truths and a Lie.

And then outside... the moment Noah draped his coat over my shoulders, his hand resting against my lower back.

Shocked doesn't even cover it. I am full-blown floored.

A sharp gasp escapes my lips as I snap my gaze to Noah. "These... these are from our first date? How is that even possible?"

Noah drags his hands down his face, rubbing his eyes in frustration. Then, with a sudden burst of energy, he pushes to his feet. "I don't know!" His voice is raw, exasperated. "Meredith's been having me followed for God knows how long, waiting—praying—to catch me in something." He huffs under his breath, motioning toward the stack of photos in my hand. "There's more."

My stomach sinks as I glance down, trying to process what's in front of me. "Noah... I don't know if I can handle seeing any more of this."

"They're not photos," he rasps, stepping closer.

I bite my lip, preparing myself for whatever comes next. My fingers quiver as I flip through the next few documents, expecting more pictures—but they're not.

Bank statements.

Wire transfers. Millions of dollars.

And the recipient? A name that sends an icy chill through me.

Kingston Monroe Hart.

My breath stalls as my eyes dart to the sender.

Noah Preston Westbrook.

What the hell is this?

I whip my head up, heart pounding in my ears. "Noah, what is this? This—this isn't my bank account."

"I know it's not," he growls, pacing the edge of the plush cream rug, his jaw clenched tight.

How does he know that?

Before I can get a word in, he keeps going. "When Meredith and I divorced, we shut down every joint account. Or at least, I thought we did. Turns out, the moment we got married, she secretly added me to a private account... then just as conveniently removed herself from it."

"Noah, that's fraud!" The words burst out of me, heat rushing to my face. "This isn't some petty office drama with your ex-wife. This could have real, serious consequences—for both of us. What is Monday? What does this mean for us?"