Unlikely (H.S.)

forty-seven

~Harper~

The notification popped up on my phone before I even had a chance to take a sip of my morning coffee. The words glared at me in bold, attention-grabbing letters:

EXCLUSIVE: Richard "Tripp" Beckett III Spills on His Toxic Relationship with Harper Jenkins – 'She's Not Who You Think She Is'

My stomach twisted into knots.

What the fuck?

The chatter of London's early morning cityscape, the distant hum of traffic, and the occasional chirp of birds outside of Harry's flat's window all faded into a numbing buzz. His warm bedroom was so very him—inviting and comforting— but now it suddenly felt suffocating.

I'm going to be sick.

I could feel Harry's warmth beside me, his hand resting lazily on my thigh as he scrolled through his own phone, oblivious to the train wreck that had just been dropped in my lap.

I didn't want to click it.

Don't do it.

Do it.

Don't fucking do it.

I knew better. I knew exactly what this was. And yet, my trembling fingers moved on their own, tapping the headline, bracing myself for the worst.

The article took forever to load, every second stretching unbearably long. But when the first line came into focus, my breath hitched.

Richard "Tripp" Beckett III has never been one to shy away from honesty, and now, he's ready to tell the world the truth about his time with Harper Jenkins—a social media darling whose pristine image might not be as squeaky clean as fans believe.

My heart pounded so loudly it drowned out everything else.

Mother fucker.

The coffee in my free hand suddenly felt like dead weight. I set it down on the bedside table, my grip slackening as I forced myself to keep reading. My vision blurred at the next lines, my chest tightening with every carefully curated, malicious word.

'She made me out to be the villain, but the truth is, Harper is the one who played the game. She's calculated. Manipulative. She knows exactly how to get what she wants, and if you're in her way? Good luck.'

A sharp inhale from beside me made my stomach drop even further.

"Fucking wanker!"

Harry wasn't scrolling anymore. His head was turned toward me, his expression darkening as his gaze flicked over my phone screen. The warmth that had been so comforting moments ago shifted, his body tense beside me, his free hand tightening slightly on my thigh.

"What the fuck is this?" His voice was low, dangerously calm, but I could hear the underlying anger humming beneath it.

I swallowed, my throat dry, "Tripp."

"Yeah, I got that,' he muttered, his jaw flexing. He sat up straighter, his posture shifting from relaxed to rigid in a matter of seconds. His hand lifted from my thigh, reaching for my phone. "Give me that."

I hesitated, but only for a second before placing it in his outstretched hand. The humiliation clawed at my throat as I watched his eyes scan the article, his brows drawing together the longer he read. His grip on the device tightened, his free hand now curled into a fist against the peach sheets.

And then, barely above a whisper, he said, "This is fucking bullshit."

But it didn't matter.

Nothing matters now.