Chapter 28
Julian sat in his office, jaw clenched, his eyes glued to the still-lit screen of his phone. Isla’s recent post was blowing up online—and not in a good way.
The comments section was a toxic wasteland:
[Homewrecker playing the victim.]
[You destroyed his wife. This is karma.]
[Bet she’d sleep with anyone who flashes a gold card.]
He stared at the photo someone had edited of Isla—her face framed like a funeral portrait. He could taste blood in his mouth, his rage swallowing him whole.
He slammed a button on his intercom. “What the hell is going on with the background check I asked for?”
His assistant shuffled in, visibly nervous. She hadn’t seen him this unhinged in years.
“We traced the source. Most of the smear posts about you and Miss Monroe were paid for by Rachel Carter. She hired marketing accounts to push them.”
Julian’s fingers tightened into fists, knuckles going white. He hurled the pen in his hand across the desk, the sharp snap of it hitting the wood making his assistant flinch.
“Get out,” he said through gritted teeth.
The second the door shut, Julian opened a fresh document. His hands hovered over the keyboard, shaking slightly before he finally started typing:
PUBLIC APOLOGY AND STATEMENT ON MY MARITAL INFIDELITY
—
Meanwhile, Isla was dealing with an entirely different storm. Her phone rang nonstop with angry calls from her brother.
“You posted that without telling me?” Landon barked through the speaker. “You’re getting death threats, and I find out like this?”
Isla held the phone away from her ear with a sigh. “Landon, I’m fine. I’ve contacted the police. It’s handled.”
“You always say that. But damn it, what if something really happens to you—”
His voice cut off abruptly. “Wait… Isla, check Julian Carter’s Twitter. Right now.”
She frowned and switched the call to speaker, pulling up Julian’s verified account.
A new post. Long. Emotional. Raw.
Her eyes widened as she read aloud: “I, Julian Carter, admit to emotionally abusing and cheating on my wife, Isla Monroe, for five years…”
Her breath caught.
At the end of the post, there was a video attached—footage of Julian and Rachel together, intimate and damning.
She scrolled to Twitter’s trending list. Half the hashtags bore his name.
#JulianCarterPublicConfession was number one.
The pinned video showed Julian in a suit, standing in front of the camera, eyes sunken, voice hoarse:
“All defamatory claims against Ms. Isla Monroe stemmed from my unwillingness to let her go. If these lies continue, Carter & Associates will pursue legal action against each and every account.”
The public’s opinion flipped like a switch.
[What in the Lifetime drama is this?!]
[She was really just caught in his mess. Damn.]
[Poor girl. Imagine having your dead ex’s ghost still haunting you like this.]
After Julian’s post, the hate against Isla quieted. New accusations surfaced: Rachel had been the mistress all along.
Three days later, deep into the night, Rachel was being wheeled out of a clinic parking garage.
A figure emerged from the shadows, his voice venomous.
“You used me like a damn pawn!”
The man screamed as he hurled a bottle of clear liquid at her face. It hit with a splash—and then came the sound. Flesh sizzling. Skin dissolving.
Rachel’s shriek echoed off the concrete walls. “My face! Oh God, it burns!”
