Early June 2026 cast a soft, golden light over Montclair’s quiet streets, the summer breeze whispering through the leafy maples, carrying the scent of cut grass and blooming peonies. It did little to soothe the ache in my chest, a dull, persistent thud that had settled there a week ago, when the TMZ photo of Justin with Claire shattered my world like a dropped glass. Her hand rested lightly on his arm, her sleek blonde hair catching the flash of cameras at some glitzy Manhattan event. His It’s just business, I love you texts had come fast and desperate, but they rang hollow, drowned out by the relentless churn of X posts: “Kayla Reed Dumped Again?” and “Justin Drake’s New Fling?” I’d fled his Greenwich penthouse that night, needing space, my suitcase packed in a haze of tears and disbelief
