“Oh, fuck.”

The site is one of the eight billion celebrity gossip sites. But this one is operated like social media. So someone can start a story, and then site members can add to it with comments or photos. This one starts with an image of Jackson, his head bent close to Megan’s, his face full of so much affection that I really just want to throw up.

There’s a headline, too. Starchitect Jackson Steele: Hollywood’s newest member of Club Bad Boy?

“Oh, god,” I say.

“I’m so sorry,” Cass says. “Do you know her?”

But I’m too busy checking out the images and text that follow the headline to answer. There are five pictures. The first of me and Jackson at Westerfield’s. Beneath that is another image from last night, only this one shows me and Jackson with our arms around Cass as we lead her to the limo. The last three images are of Jackson and Megan. The first is what I saw an hour ago—her kissing him in front of Stark Tower. The second is the two of them seated across a table from each other, apparently having lunch. And the final one shows the two of them on the deck of his boat. It was obviously taken with a long lens from the dock. They’re facing each other, his hands are on both of her shoulders, and from the angle, it looks like he’s about to pull her to him and catch her in one hell of a lip-lock.

And the most horrible thing? I recognize the green flag of the yacht that’s moored right next to them. Because it arrived this morning as Jackson and I were leaving for work. Which means that this fucking photograph was taken today. Today.

“This isn’t—” I try to form a sentence, but my brain is frozen. All of me is frozen. I’m cold. So very, very cold. “It can’t be—”

“I sure hope the hell not,” Cass says. “I mean, they’re making shit up about the three of us, so hopefully the crap about the redhead is bullshit, too.”

“Her name’s Megan.” I sound shell-shocked. “What do you mean the three of us?”

She answers me, but I don’t even hear her words. They’re just so much background noise. Because I’ve found what she’s talking about all on my own. The text under the headline that talks about how Jackson is working for Damien. About how he’s new to Hollywood, and he’s settling right in. Getting into fistfights. Fucking lots of women. Me. Me and Cass as a nice little girl-boy-girl sandwich. And this new woman that the writer can’t yet identify, but who Jackson took back to his boat after an intimate lunch for an even more intimate dessert.

This can’t be right.

I scroll down and find images of Jackson with other women, all taken over the course of the last five years. There aren’t many—it’s not like he’s some mega movie star and the paparazzi is glued to him—but whoever wrote this article did their homework, and for each gala Jackson has attended, there is a different woman on his arm. And the commentary makes clear that Jackson pretty much fucked his way across the United States, and is continuing to do exactly that. With Megan. With me. And with God only knows who else.

“Don’t completely freak until you talk to him,” Cass warns, which is a little ironic considering she’d called me in full freak-out mode, and I tell her as much. “I know, I know. And I’m sorry. It’s just—well, I like Jackson, but I love you, and I don’t want you to get hurt. And I swear if he does hurt you, I will cut his balls off with a hacksaw.”

I cringe. But I don’t disagree.

“You’re going to talk to him, right?”

“Yeah,” I say. I don’t say when, but I know it won’t be soon. Right now, I’m feeling just a little too raw.

“Okay, listen, my four o’clock just walked in. But you call if you need me.”

I promise that I will, then end the call. I sit and stare at the computer screen and then—because that really isn’t helping my mood—reach over and turn off my entire goddamn computer.

Shit.

How the hell could a day that started out so well have spiraled down so quickly?

I stare at the vase of flowers on my desk—lovely roses that should add some cheer to my day, but instead are only making me miserable. “Fuck.”

I pick up the vase, and before I can talk myself out of it, I drop the whole thing—glass and flowers and water and all—right into my trash.

It’s not as cathartic as I’d hoped, but I do feel slightly better.

The truth is that I should just haul my rear downstairs and talk to him, but I feel too ripped up inside. I’m afraid that I’ll start shouting at him. Or, worse, that I’ll burst into tears. I need time to get my shit together. I need to not think about Jackson or Megan or those stupid photos and just let it all settle.