(Scott’s Point of View)
The first time I see the article, it isn’t a surprise. It’s a confirmation. A sentence being handed down for a crime I was fully aware of committing. My phone vibrates on my nightstand with a text from my head of PR, a link with a single, damning question mark. I tap it, and the garish, glittering headline of Vegas Vixen fills my screen. The photo is exactly as I remembered it from the flash of light that had illuminated the casino alcove—a stolen moment of desperate connection, expertly framed to look like a clandestine romance. My hand reaching for hers, her face lifted to mine. A perfect, silent lie that told a deeper, more dangerous truth.
A wave of self-loathing, so potent it’s almost nauseating, washes over me. I’ve done it again. Three years ago, I vanis
