All That Went Unsaid | Complete (18+)

chapter 9

Sophie Esinberg's POV

"Absolutely not," I said, the words sharp, unforgiving. I straightened, swallowing the knot rising in my throat. Pulling myself together, I met Raymond's gaze—steady and steel-cold.

"This is your only way to shut the paparazzi up. You do this, and they'll focus on whatever you want them to," he replied, tone calm, too calm, like he'd rehearsed it in his head a dozen times.

I let out a dry laugh, bitter and brittle. "How is this going to shut them up? If anything, it'll just prove them right. What was it they called me again? Ah yes... Seductress Esinberg," I said, spitting the moniker like venom. "You really think I'm going to play right into their hands?"

"I talked to my PR advisor. She thinks if we pose as a couple, it'll kill the scandal before it grows any bigger."

"Then fire her," I snapped. "I can give better advice after two hours of sleep and a migraine." I turned on my heel, heading toward the open door of my suite. The city buzzed somewhere below, but here, it was just us and the ghost of everything unspoken.

"And I advise that we stay as far away from each other as possible, and let it cool off on its own" I said coolly. "If anything, now, Mr. Reynolds, I'd appreciate if you could see yourself out." I tossed his name like a blade and forced myself to hold his gaze.

His eyes—those same ocean blue eyes that once felt like home—searched mine, a flicker of frustration slipping past his composed mask.

"Soaf, think about it," he pleaded, a softness creeping in. "We can mitigate the damage—together. Once the media sees we're a united front, the fire will burn out. They'll stop chasing the scandal if they think there's no mystery left to uncover. And then... you take back control. We both do."

I folded my arms, refusing to let his words wrap around me like they used to. "How does it benefit you?"

"If we have the reins, we steer the story," he said. "I don't want them digging into my past either."

That caught me. My brows lifted, skeptical. "Digging into your past?" I asked, voice slow and deliberate. "What, exactly, is there left to dig? That you're a golden boy from a rich family? That you were born with a gift and got everything handed to you?"

He scoffed—and God, the sound of it stung. It wasn't cruel, but dismissive, like he was laughing at how little I understood. At how much I thought I knew.

"Soaf," he said again, softer this time, "just think about it. I'm not your enemy."

The words shouldn't have landed. But they did. They hit like ice cracking through armor.

"I think it's the fastest way to do damage control," he finished, brushing past me and stepping into the hallway with the easy grace of someone used to leaving.

And I just stood there.

Watching him go—again.

Just like I had all those years ago, when the world had already begun to fall apart and it has been a chaos ever since. 

After three hours meandering through cobbled market lanes and two more sunk into a sun-drenched corner of a French café, we found ourselves lazily stretched in wicker chairs, indulging in croissants that flaked like golden confetti and lattes that tasted like caramel-kissed dreams. Between bites and sips, we trashed our college roommates—Justin did the impressions, Dan ranked the worst fridge crimes, and I laughed so hard I nearly spilled coffee on my linen shorts.