POV Kobe
The memory plays on loop—her voice cracking on you were supposed to believe me—and no amount of expensive whiskey makes it stop.
Fun fact about being an actor: you get really good at recognizing the exact moment hope dies in someone's eyes. Usually it happens on screen, safely fictional, something I can wash off with my makeup at the end of the day.
Watching it happen to Raegan felt like swallowing broken glass.
My phone buzzes. My office. Now. We have security footage.
Fantastic. More evidence of how thoroughly we fucked this up.
Maxwell waits in the lobby looking like someone ran his face through a garbage disposal of guilt and regret.
Which, fair. I probably look worse.
"You look like shit," he says, because Maxwell has never met an emotion he couldn't express through insult.
"Bold words from a man whose eye bags have eye bags." I fall into step beside him. "What did Jared find?"
"Adrian. On camera. Pouring something into Raegan's sauces while she consulted with me about the tasting menu."
His voice goes flat in that way that means he's already cycled through rage and come out the other side into something colder.
"I fired him two hours ago. He made a very interesting phone call on his way out."
"Define interesting."
"The kind where he explicitly names Winnie as the person who recruited him, provided the compound, and promised him a position at another restaurant if he destroyed Raegan's career."
The information lands like a baseball bat to the chest.
We destroyed the woman we love based on evidence manufactured by Jared's psychotic fiancée.
We looked at Raegan—Raegan, who raised her sister alone, who works harder than anyone I've ever met, who trusted us with parts of herself she'd never shown anyone—and we chose to believe the villain in designer heels instead.
If this were a movie, the audience would be throwing popcorn at the screen right now.
And they'd be right to do it.
Jared's office feels like a courtroom where I'm both defendant and guilty party. He stands at the window looking ten years older than yesterday, and when he turns, I see the same self-loathing I've been marinating in since Raegan walked out.
"Winnie will be here in fifteen minutes." No preamble, no small talk. "Before she arrives, I need you both to understand how I'm handling this."
"Handling it how?" I drop into a chair. "Because my vote is for public execution, but I'm flexible."
"I'm ending the engagement using her sabotage as legal grounds."
Jared moves to his desk with that controlled posture he gets when he's in full CEO mode.
"Her actions constitute interference with business operations. My lawyers confirmed it gives me an exit without triggering the penalty clauses."
Maxwell crosses his arms. "And she just walks away? After what she did?"
"She walks away quietly, without becoming an enemy who spends the next decade finding new ways to hurt Raegan." Jared's jaw tightens. "The Beaumont family doesn't forget slights. If I humiliate Winnie publicly, she retaliates. If I give her an exit that preserves her dignity, she might actually disappear."
I want to argue.
I want to demand blood and vengeance and some kind of dramatic confrontation worthy of a third-act climax.
But I watch my cousin across the room—choosing strategy over satisfaction, protecting Raegan even now—and something shifts in my chest.
Here's the thing about growing up in Jared Spencer's shadow: you start measuring yourself against a yardstick you can never reach.
He got the business empire.
I got the Hollywood career that sounds impressive until you realize it's mostly pretending to be other people because being yourself never felt like enough.
Every interaction between us has felt like competition I was destined to lose.
But watching him now, watching him choose what's smart over what feels good because Raegan's safety matters more than his anger, I realize we were never actually competing.
We were both just trying to become worthy of something real.
The door opens and Winnie sweeps in wearing Chanel armor and an expression that could freeze vodka. She surveys the three of us like we're servants who forgot our place.
"Jared, darling. You mentioned something urgent." That smile that never reaches her eyes. "I do hope this isn't about your chef. I heard she resigned rather dramatically."
"She resigned because you destroyed her career." Jared's voice stays terrifyingly calm. "Adrian confessed everything. You recruited him. You provided the compound. You manufactured evidence to make us blame an innocent woman for your sabotage."
Winnie's composure cracks for half a second before she recovers. "That's a fascinating accusation. Do you have proof beyond some disgruntled line cook?"
"Security footage. Timestamps. A recorded phone call where Adrian names you explicitly." Jared slides a folder across his desk. "My legal team confirms it's grounds to dissolve our engagement without penalty."
The silence stretches until Winnie's mask shatters completely.
"You would end a decades-long family arrangement over some kitchen worker?" The words come out venomous, desperate. "Our families planned this union before either of us could walk. You're throwing everything away for a woman who doesn't belong in the same room as us."
"Raegan belongs everywhere she chooses to be." The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. "She has more integrity in her smallest gesture than you've demonstrated in your entire performance as a human being. And trust me—I know performances."
"This isn't about comparison, Winifred."
Jared cuts in, and the full name lands like a slap.
"You sabotaged my business and framed an innocent woman. I'm offering a clean exit—no scandal, no legal action, no damage to your family's reputation. Take it and walk away with your dignity intact."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then every piece of evidence becomes public record, and you can explain to the society pages why you recruited a line cook to destroy someone whose only crime was being better at her job than anyone you've ever known." Jared straightens. "Take the exit, Winnie. It's the last kindness I'll offer."
The standoff stretches for thirty eternal seconds.
Rage cycles through her features, then calculation, then bitter acceptance.
"Fine." She snatches the folder. "But don't pretend this is mercy. You're just protecting yourself from consequences."
She leaves without looking back. The door clicks shut with finality.
I look at Maxwell, then at Jared, and suddenly the rivalry that's defined my relationship with my cousin feels exhausting. Pointless.
The kind of competition that only matters when you're too scared to admit what you actually want.
"She was never going to work as anything real." Jared speaks first. "I knew that from the beginning, but I convinced myself duty mattered more than happiness."
"We all convinced ourselves of bullshit." Maxwell uncrosses his arms. "Including the idea that we could earn Raegan's love while fighting over pieces of her like dogs with a bone."
The observation hits somewhere vital. I think about the rooftop bar, the poetry, the desperate need to claim something that was only mine—all of it driven by terror that I'd lose her to men who seemed more deserving.
"So what now?" I ask. "We can't undo what we did. We can't rewind time and choose to believe her when it mattered."
"No." Jared meets my eyes. "But we can stop working against each other. Prove that our love means more than jealousy, more than competition, more than the damage we caused."
Maxwell nods. "One coordinated effort instead of three separate campaigns. We win her back together or not at all."
The agreement settles over us like a covenant. Three men who spent months measuring ourselves against each other, finally choosing to become something greater than our individual disasters.
"Together, then." I extend my hand. "For Raegan."