Page 24 of Graves

“And how did he and Ben Jenkins become a couple?” Donna asks. “I mean, both of them were openly bisexual. But when they went public, social media exploded.”

“Yes, but that wasn’t because of Aran Graves. It was because Ben Jenkins had a massive female fanbase. They were in total shock when the relationship was announced. They met at a festival in England and, by all accounts, it was love at first sight. They were inseparable for almost three years, even going on a joint world tour. It was a monster tour in every sense. Sadly, it ended tragically two days before the final show.”

Seeing Ben’s face knocks the air out of me. It’s one thing to look at the private photo in my bedroom. But these are public shots of us together—pictures of a perfect world nobody knew was already cracked. Ben was a damn good actor when it came to separating private from business. That created images where he was all smiles and I appeared moody. Catnip for the tabloids.

My heart races as I pace, punching my wrist with my fist, forcing air into my lungs.

The pictures tell their own story. It’s obvious who the angel and who the devil is. It looks like I was the one keeping Ben on a short leash.

I try to calm down by reminding myself that Donna Broderick has always seen the world in black and white, and her show lives on polarization.

So why the fuck can’t I turn the TV off?

It feels like I’m punishing myself.

I should be getting ready for the show. I’m standing here fresh out of the shower in nothing but jeans, shirtless, hooked on Donna Broderick’s bullshit.

“It was said that Aran Graves had been physically violent toward Ben Jenkins before.”

“Lies!” I shout.

“There’s a photo of Ben Jenkins with a black eye. He claimed he fell off the stage at a concert. But after what happened five years ago, it’s pretty clear where that bruise came from.”

“That’s a lie!”

Of course Donna can’t hear me.

No one can, except—

A throat clearing snaps me out of my rage. I whip my head around.

Koh is standing in the doorway, peering at me strangely. My eyes drop to the little ball of fur next to him.

“What is that?” I ask, still irritated while Donna keeps spreading lies about me in the background.

“This is Pixie. A Yorkie,” Koh answers, unhooking the leash. The dog runs toward me.

I wince and blink away the tension. “What’s it doing here?”

“She,” Koh corrects me as he hangs up his jacket and heads to the kitchen. “Her owner passed away unexpectedly last night.”

“And you brought the dog here? Take it to a shelter!”

Koh pauses by the kitchen island, gaping at me like I’m crazy. “Are you really that heartless, or are you just pretending?”

“I don’t want a dog here.”

“She weighs five pounds. You’ll barely notice her.”

Pixie sniffs at my pant leg. When I take a step back, the Yorkie follows me, making Koh laugh. I glare at him, only to realize that he has a beautiful laugh. Shit, man. The guy is practically glowing as he hauls a bag of dog food from his backpack and opens it.

“Pixie! Come here!”

The Yorkie trots right over.

“She looks like an old-lady dog!”

“Not for long,” Koh tells her, giving her a treat. “We’re taking you to the groomer and cutting off all that long hair. Then you’ll be cute again.”