Chapter 27
The second Rue handed off a completely wasted Silas to Wren, she turned to push open the bar’s back door—only to have her wrist yanked in a brutal grip.
“Rue…”
Julian’s voice was raw, broken. His hand trembled, but the pressure on her wrist could’ve shattered bone.
She scowled and jerked free. “Mr. Carter? Do you need something?”
Under the streetlight, Julian looked like death in a suit—ashen skin, shirt open at the collar, pain written all over his face.
“I saw you… You were hugging him. You said yes to him?”
“That’s my business. Not yours.”
She turned to walk away. He stepped in front of her.
“Why can’t it be me?”
Tears rolled down his cheeks before he even noticed. “Since you died, the only way I’ve made it through the day is by pretending you’re still alive. I—”
“Do you need me to remind you?” Rue’s voice turned glacial. “You’re the reason Isla Monroe is dead.”
Julian reeled like she’d slapped him.
“You tossed her aside when she was alive and now you wanna act like some tragic lover after she’s gone? That’s a joke.”
He staggered, pain flooding his eyes. “I’m sorry… It’s my fault.”
“Then stop showing up in my life. That’s the least you can do.”
The words landed like a blade to his chest. Julian let out a strangled sound, nearly collapsing to his knees.
“Rue… just one more chance. I swear I’ll—”
“How many chances do you think I gave you?” Her voice cracked now, trembling with held-back fury. “You cheated in the fourth year of our marriage. Spent our anniversary in someone else’s bed. I was coughing up blood and dying, and you—”
She stopped. Took a deep breath.
“Isla Monroe died waiting for you to come home. What the hell are you mourning now?”
Julian dropped to his knees, defeated. “I’m sorry…”
Rue walked past him, her heels splashing through puddles as the night tore his sobs into pieces.
—
The next morning, Rue was jolted awake by a barrage of calls from Wren.
The second she answered, Wren’s voice came through, panicked. “Rue, you need to check Twitter. Now. You and Julian were photographed outside the bar.”
Rue opened the link. There it was—trending: #JulianCarterLateNightWithMysteryWoman
A grainy paparazzi shot showed Julian holding her wrist like he was pledging undying love. The caption underneath? Pure venom:
“Barely cold in the grave and he’s already promoting the side chick?”
The comment section was a dumpster fire:
“Homewrecking whores don’t deserve peace.”
“Julian Carter ruins one woman and now he’s going for round two?”
“She looks all sweet, but I bet she’s been screwing him for years behind the scenes.”
“Maybe she’s the mistress who drove Isla Monroe to her death.”
No one cared about truth. They believed what fit their twisted narrative.
Rue’s DMs were worse—flooded with insults, accusations, and outright threats.
Just as she was processing that, the doorbell rang.
When she opened the door, the hallway was empty.
On the ground: a plain, unmarked cardboard box.
Inside, wrapped in blood-smeared paper, was a dead rat and a card scrawled in jagged handwriting:
“Die, homewrecker.”
Even after everything, it made her stomach lurch.
She pulled on gloves, bagged the rat, snapped a photo, and posted it to Twitter:
“Reported to the police. The internet is not a lawless playground. Anyone who uses ‘justice’ to unleash their inner rot—you’re not getting away with it.”
It didn’t take long before Silas called.
“Rue, someone leaked your address? Come stay with us, just until it dies down.”
She shook her head. “I’ll be fine. I can take care of myself.”
He hesitated. She ended the call and dialed the police.
