Hostile Affection

Chapter 18: The Mask Falls

Nicco’s POV

It had been six days since Troye vanished without a trace.

No messages. No calls. Not even a goodbye.

I stared blankly at my phone screen, thumb hovering over the last text he’d ever sent me—nine words, short and cruel in their simplicity:

I’m sorry. I think this is where we end.

That was it. No context. No warning.

I’d called him. God knows I tried. I showed up at his door like a madman, knocking until my knuckles went raw—but no one answered. Not Kent. Not Kiana. No one knew where he’d gone. They were as blindsided as I was—left behind and hollow, unanswered like unopened letters.

Three days later, I saw it. A quiet announcement on a real estate site:

FOR SALE – 2BR Unit, Prime Location, Excellent View.

Troye’s condo. The one right beside mine.

That was when it hit me—it wasn’t a break. It wasn’t space.

Troye had really left me.

And now, I spent most of my nights drowning in alcohol, surrounded by friends who were too loyal to leave me alone.

The bar tonight smelled of old whiskey, leather, and rain-soaked pavement. It was tucked between an abandoned bookstore and a pawnshop, the kind of place you only found if you were trying to disappear. Dim amber lights, slow jazz humming in the background—just loud enough to drown out whatever was left of me.

I was hunched over a half-empty bottle of vodka, eyes burning, voice rasping from too many cigarettes and too little sleep.

“What the f**k is wrong with me?” I muttered, staring into my glass like it might answer back. “Why did he leave me?”

Yasser groaned beside me, sprawled on the booth’s worn leather seat. “Here we go again,” he said, smirking. “He’s gonna cry. Watch.”

He wasn’t wrong. I could feel it building behind my ribs. But I didn’t care anymore. Let them see me break. Pride didn’t mean s**t when the person you loved decided you weren’t worth staying for.

“If we weren’t your friends,” Venice said, taking a long sip from her gin and tonic, “we’d be out of here by now. You’re hellbent on taking our livers down with yours.”

I laughed once—bitter and broken. “I just… I don’t get it,” I said, my voice cracking mid-sentence. “I loved him. I really f*****g loved him.”

And just like that, the tears came—slow at first, then all at once. I gripped the bottle tighter and took another swig, the vodka burning my throat raw. It felt like punishment. Maybe that’s what I deserved.

Jacob leaned forward, his tone gentler than usual. “Maybe you did something, Nic. Tell us the truth—did you cheat? Is that video really not you?”

My jaw locked. “Seriously?” I glared at him, anger spiking through the fog. “I would never do that to Troye. Never. That video’s edited. It’s not me.”

The damn video.

The one that exploded online two weeks ago—grainy footage, a body that looked vaguely like mine, a voice that could’ve been mine if you squinted and wanted to believe the worst. It was enough to plant doubt. Enough to ruin everything.

We’d hired a cybersecurity team, even brought in a hacker. But whoever leaked it had covered their tracks well. The trail was dead.

Franco adjusted his glasses, frowning. “Any update?”

I shook my head. “Nothing yet.”

“Then start there,” Venice said firmly. “Clear your name. Maybe that’s why Troye left.”

But I knew that wasn’t it. I could feel it in my gut. “No,” I said softly. “He believed me. I know he did. He didn’t leave because of the video.”

Yasser tilted his head. “Then what the hell happened?”

I took a deep breath, the memory scraping at the edges of my chest. “We were at his place,” I started. “Talking. Laughing a little. Things were… calm. We were getting there, you know? Then my phone rang.”

They waited.

“It was my ex,” I said, the word bitter on my tongue. “I stood up and left. Didn’t even think. Just… walked out.”

Silence fell like fog. The kind that made you aware of every breath.

Then Franco smacked his palm on the table, startling me. “You idiot.”

I frowned. “What?”

“You’re f*****g clueless, Nicco,” he snapped. “He was jealous. You two were having a moment, and you just—left. For your ex.”

Venice groaned. “Oh my God, I want to slap you right now.”

“If I were Troye,” Yasser muttered, “I wouldn’t have just walked out. I’d have thrown your phone off the balcony first.”

Jacob chuckled darkly. “You really thought Troye didn’t care, huh?”

Their words landed heavy. Sharp. True.

I leaned back, heart pounding. Jealousy. That’s what it had been. He’d seen me leave, thought it meant something, and built walls I couldn’t see until it was too late.

But still—it didn’t make sense. Troye wasn’t the type to run without talking. He always asked questions. Always gave people a chance to explain.

“He could’ve just talked to me,” I said quietly.

Franco shook his head. “Some wounds don’t ask questions, Nicco. Some people just reach a limit.”

The words stung more than I expected. Maybe because I knew he was right. Maybe because I had always thought Troye was stronger than that. Stronger than me.

But maybe everyone breaks differently.

I dropped my face into my hands and exhaled, slow and shaky. “I just want him back,” I whispered. “I don’t care how long it takes. I just want to fix it.”

Jacob rested a hand on my shoulder. “Then start by fixing yourself. Trace who leaked that video. Protect your name. And if he ever comes back, make sure you’re ready.”

Outside, the rain had started to fall, soft and steady, turning the city’s noise into a dull hush.

By one in the morning, we stumbled out of the bar, the night heavy with the smell of wet asphalt and smoke. My friends went their separate ways, leaving me on the cracked pavement, half-sober and hollow.

I pulled my hoodie over my head as the drizzle turned colder. Every step felt like dragging stone. The streets shimmered silver beneath the streetlights, the puddles reflecting a version of me I barely recognized.

I stopped under a flickering lamp post, lit a cigarette, and watched the smoke twist into the night air. My fingers were trembling. My chest ached in ways words couldn’t describe.

Regret, I realized, tastes worse than vodka.

I tilted my head back, whispering to the empty street, “I just f*****g love you, Troye.”

The rain answered for him—soft, unfeeling, and silent.

And for the first time, I wondered if silence was all I’d ever get.

***

Troye’s POV

I never imagined my life would lead here—

to a penthouse suite in New York, sitting before a glowing vanity mirror, a celebrity makeup artist fussing over my face like I was someone worth the attention.

The air smelled faintly of setting powder and cologne. Soft jazz hummed in the background, but it couldn’t quiet the thunder in my chest. I was about to do something I’d promised myself I’d never do: step out of the shadows.

Today, the world would meet Midnight Montefalco—

and realize he was me.

Troye Maxwell Mondejar.

The man behind the name.

My hands rested in my lap, trembling slightly, though I masked it with practiced stillness. The makeup artist—a warm, excitable man with soft hands and steady eyes—was humming as he worked, swirling a brush across my cheekbones.

“Let’s go light on the foundation,” he said cheerfully. “Your skin’s already amazing.” He paused, tilting his head. “What’s your skincare routine?”

A small laugh escaped me. “You’re flattering me.”

“I’m serious,” he said, eyes sparkling. “Honestly? I’m kind of having a fan moment right now. Midnight Montefalco in the flesh. You’ve saved me so many nights from heartbreak.”

Heartbreak.

The word sat heavy in the room.

My smile faltered for a fraction of a second before I forced it back. I’d learned to hide cracks quickly—it was the only way I knew how to survive interviews, appearances, and people who wanted to love the idea of me more than the truth of me.

“Oh, before I forget,” the man said, reaching for his phone. “Would you mind a selfie? I swear I won’t post it. I’ll wait for the reveal. Cross my heart.”

For a heartbeat, hesitation clawed at me.

I had never liked photos—never liked seeing my own face frozen and exposed. But the man’s energy was disarming, honest. And maybe… maybe it was okay to stop hiding for once.

“Okay,” I said quietly. “Just one.”

The flash went off.

Afterward, I signed his copy of Midnight Ashes. My fingers paused at the dedication page, tracing the printed ink with a kind of reverence. My fans didn’t know it, but Nicco was hidden in every book I’d ever written—scars disguised as metaphors, longing buried under layers of prose.

Every story was just another way of saying his name without saying it.

I swallowed hard.

Not now. Not today.

By one in the afternoon, I stood outside the grand conference room, my reflection ghosted in the dark glass doors. I was dressed in black slacks and a fitted suit jacket, my face hidden behind a white Jabbawockeez mask. It felt strange—half armor, half farewell.

My pulse was erratic. I could hear it even through the muffled chatter and camera hum beyond the door.

Inside, the atmosphere buzzed with anticipation. The room was packed—media outlets, bloggers, t****k reviewers, literary influencers, all of them waiting to meet the man I’d spent years pretending wasn’t me.

When the emcee’s voice boomed through the speakers, the room fell into a hush.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my greatest honor to introduce the man behind the bestselling Midnight Montefalco novels—please welcome him to the stage!”

I exhaled once and stepped into the light.

Camera flashes exploded instantly—bright, relentless, like lightning across a summer storm. I walked calmly, chin high, every step measured though my chest felt like a riot. I took my seat at the long table beside my publishers, folding my hands neatly in front of me.

The first wave of questions came fast.

They asked about my childhood, my writing process, my favorite authors, my rituals. I answered smoothly, each response rehearsed, each smile polished. I could do this in my sleep—play the part, keep the walls up, give them just enough to feed their curiosity.

And then came the inevitable question.

A woman near the front raised her hand, voice teasing but sharp.

“Mr. Montefalco,” she said, “forgive the personal question—but are you single?”

Laughter rippled through the room. Phones angled higher.

I blinked, caught off guard. A small pause, a heartbeat too long.

“Yes,” I said finally, keeping my tone even. “I’m single.”

The room erupted in delighted squeals. Reporters typed faster, eyes glinting with interest. I looked down at the table, focusing on the wood grain pattern to steady myself.

I was supposed to be happy.

I had everything I’d worked for—an international name, a loyal readership, a powerful publishing deal.

This should have been the pinnacle.

But all I could think was:

He should’ve been here.

Nicco’s name pressed at the back of my throat like a bruise.

He should’ve been the one I whispered to backstage.

He should’ve been in the front row, smirking at how serious I looked under the mask.

But that door had closed, and I was the one who locked it.

The memory returned like it always did—quiet, brutal.

The way I’d packed my life into boxes that night.

No tears, no shouting. Just a numb sort of acceptance that comes when you’ve already cried yourself dry.

I left everything that didn’t matter. Took only the manuscripts, the essentials. Left a note on the nightstand.

And then I sent one message.

I’m sorry. I think this is where we end.

I could still see the words glowing on my phone screen before I powered it off.

To Kent and Kiana, I’d written something lighter, detached.

Take care of Scarlet for me. I’m okay. Don’t worry.

But I hadn’t been okay.

Not even close.

I’d barely made it out of the condo before breaking down in the backseat of a cab—my chest heaving, my body shaking in ways I didn’t know grief could do. But I kept going. I boarded the first flight to New York that morning because staying meant suffocating.

If Nicco truly loved me, why did it feel like his heart still lived in someone else’s hands?

Why did I feel like a placeholder in his story?

The emcee’s voice snapped me back to the present.

“And now,” he said dramatically, “the moment you’ve all been waiting for!”

The crowd cheered, a blur of noise and heat.

“I can’t hear you!” he shouted, grinning. “Are you ready to meet the real Midnight Montefalco?”

The room roared in response.

My palms were damp. My breath came shallow. The stage lights burned hot against my skin.

“Let’s count it down together!”

“Three… two… one—!”

I reached up and removed the mask.

The world lit up in a storm of flashes.

For a moment, I could hardly see. The cameras popped like fireworks, the room an ocean of applause and disbelief. My vision adjusted, and I lifted the microphone to my lips.

“My name is Troye Maxwell Mondejar,” I said, my voice steady and sure despite the tremor inside. “And I am the man behind the name Midnight Montefalco.”

The room erupted—cheers, applause, whistles. My publishers beamed beside me, pride radiating from their smiles. People stood from their chairs, shouting my name, streaming it live across the world.

But I felt none of the noise.

In that moment, the sound faded into something soft and distant.

All I could feel was the air filling my lungs.

All I could hear was my heartbeat slowing to something calm.

For the first time in years, it wasn’t anxiety that lived in my chest.

It wasn’t heartbreak, or guilt, or the ghost of someone I once loved.

It was peace.

Quiet, fragile, but real.

I had made it.

Without compromise. Without shortcuts. Without hiding.

And yes—it had cost me. It had taken pieces of me I might never get back. But here I was, standing under blinding lights, finally being seen for who I was.

Troye Maxwell Mondejar.

Not a secret. Not a shadow.

I exhaled slowly, feeling something loosen inside my chest.

I had survived the noise. The lies. The leaving.

I had built something out of the wreckage.

And even if the ache of Nicco’s absence lingered somewhere quiet in the corners of my heart, it no longer defined me.

The cameras kept flashing. The crowd kept cheering. But my smile—this one—wasn’t for them.

It was for me.

Because after everything, after the silence and the loss and the countless nights wondering if I’d ever feel whole again—

I finally could look at my reflection and say, with a steadiness I’d earned,

I made it.

***

Nicco’s POV

The doorbell had been ringing for what felt like forever.

Piper’s sharp barks echoed through the condo, and Scarlet joined in—scratching and whining by the door like they sensed something urgent, something I couldn’t yet feel.

I groaned, half-burying my face into the pillow. Sleep had only found me at nearly three in the morning, and even then it had been the kind that barely counted—light, restless, haunted by noise I couldn’t name.

Whoever was hammering the bell this early clearly didn’t value their life.

My hand fumbled toward the nightstand, fingers sweeping over cold wood, until I found my phone. One bleary eye cracked open.

“s**t,” I muttered. 7:46 a.m.

The screen glared back at me, filled with missed calls—Jacob. Franco. Yasser. Venice. All within the last thirty minutes.

My stomach tightened.

That many missed calls, this early? That never meant anything good.

I dragged myself out of bed, hair a mess, head pounding from the alcohol still lingering from last night. The dogs followed close, tails flicking anxiously as I stalked to the door. I didn’t even bother checking the monitor—whatever waited on the other side could just deal with me in my half-dead state.

When I swung the door open, four faces greeted me—each one looking like they’d been standing out there for years.

“I was about to break this damn door down,” Yasser grumbled, crossing his arms.

Venice glared at me. “We’ve been standing out here for thirty freaking minutes. You asshole.”

I squinted against the light pouring through the hallway. “Why are you all here this early?”

Jacob gave me a look. “Maybe let us inside first?”

I stepped back without arguing. “Fine. You’re inside. Now talk. Whatever you’re about to say, it better be good.”

Franco’s expression was grim. “We’ve got good news and bad news. Your call—what do you want first?”

I rubbed my temples, the beginnings of a headache digging behind my eyes. “Start with the good. Make sure it’s actually good.”

Franco hesitated. “Alright. First—your fake s*x video? We found out who was behind it.”

The words sliced clean through the fog in my brain. My spine straightened. “Who?”

“Tobias,” he said.

For a second, I thought I’d misheard. “What?”

“Tobias,” Franco repeated, slower this time. “Troye’s brother.”

The name landed like a punch to the chest.

Troye’s brother.

I stared at him, waiting for the joke, for the smirk that would tell me this was some kind of sick prank—but none came.

“That doesn’t make sense,” I said finally, voice sharp. “Why the hell would he do that?”

My mind began to race. Tobias was quiet, polite to a fault. I’d barely spoken to him beyond the usual greetings. There had never been bad blood. Never even a reason for him to know my name.

“We don’t know,” Yasser said. “That’s something you’ll have to figure out.”

My fists curled without me meaning to. “That bastard. I didn’t do anything to deserve this.”

Jacob’s voice softened. “We believe you, man. But at least now you have a name. That’s the good news.”

I let out a hollow laugh. “Good news, huh? Can’t wait for the bad.”

Jacob exchanged glances with the others. “We know where Troye is.”

That name. That damned name. It cut through me like a blade every single time.

I stepped forward. “Where?”

“Wait,” Jacob said, raising a hand. “Let me explain first—he’s in New York.”

The words fell heavy, like concrete in my stomach.

New York.

An entire ocean away.

Before I could even speak, Venice moved closer, her face unreadable as she handed me her phone. “You need to see this.”

I frowned, but took it. The screen was already playing.

A stage. A crowd. Flashing cameras.

And then—him.

Troye.

Standing behind a podium, calm and composed in a dark suit. His hair slicked back, his expression controlled, practiced.

My throat tightened.

And then came the voice—steady, clear, the same voice that used to whisper nonsense against my skin.

“My name is Troye Maxwell Mondejar,” he said, “and I am the man behind the name Midnight Montefalco.”

The crowd erupted—clapping, shouting, phones lifted in the air as if the world had just been handed a miracle.

But my world was cracking.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Troye. Midnight Montefalco.

The man I loved—the one who disappeared without a word, without a reason—had been living a double life. Hiding behind a name the world worshipped.

My knees went weak.

Troye… was Midnight Montefalco.

The bestselling author whose words I’d clung to long before I ever met him. The writer whose lines had saved me on nights when I thought nothing could. The same man who had once looked me in the eyes and said, “You’re the only thing that feels real to me.”

A sound tore out of me, quiet but raw.

You left me… to protect that name, didn’t you?

You didn’t want to be associated with me—because of that video. Because of what people might say. Because loving me would’ve tarnished your perfect, poetic image.

Was I just a liability, Troye? Someone to cut loose when the storm came?

I could feel my pulse in my jaw, my breath coming too fast.

Jacob’s hand landed on my shoulder, grounding but distant. “Nicco, say something.”

I didn’t. I couldn’t.

The clip looped again—Troye standing tall, composed, as the room cheered for him.

“My name is Troye Maxwell Mondejar…”

Each repetition chipped at me until I thought I’d shatter.

Was that why you left me, Troye?

Was it because you were ashamed of me?

Of us?

I stared at the screen, at the man I once believed I truly knew, and for the first time since he’d walked out of my life, I realized I didn’t recognize him at all.