The video showed up on i********: about three hours after I left the Met.
Someone had filmed us in the Egyptian wing—well, not the whole thing, but enough. Enough to catch Adrian’s sharp dismissal, my face crumbling like I’d been sucker-punched. The caption stung worse than the clip: When you run into your ex at the museum and remember why you broke up #awkward #drama #golddiggerexposed.
By the time I got back to the safe house, it was everywhere. Twitter threads, gossip sites, people I didn’t know dissecting thirty seconds of grainy footage like they had a PhD in failed marriages.
But what mattered wasn’t them. It was Charles Brennan.
He called that night.
“You looked appropriately desperate,” he said, his voice smooth as glass. “Though I admit, I didn’t expect you to approach your h
