I straighten my shoulders. “I have nothing to say. Absolutely nothing.”

He steps toward me, confusion creasing his brow. “Then—”

I hold up a hand to silence him as hysterical laughter bubbles up and spills from my lips. I don’t care if I sound crazy. I don’t care about anything but getting the hell out of here before he makes me feel any worse on a day that’s already predisposed to be awful.

“You know what?” My voice cracks, and I clear my throat.

“What?”

“I already know how this little scene ends.” I wave my hand between us. “So I’m gonna save you the trouble. You don’t need to throw me out, because I’m gone.”

I spin on my heel and head for the door. My shoes are nowhere to be found. Again. God, why is my life one big disaster repeating itself over and over?

I yank the massive glass door open just as Lincoln grabs my wrist.

“Whitney, wait—”

“Don’t touch me.” I shake him off and step outside. “I’m done doing anything you ask. You don’t trust me? Then you don’t fucking deserve anything from me.”

I slam the door behind me. Three steps down the driveway, all the morally outraged stiffness fades from the set of my shoulders, and tears track down my face.

Every step of my bare feet on the asphalt reminds me that I never learn.

But this time I will.

I make the vow to myself as I walk away from Lincoln and out to whatever bullshit life throws at me next.

I just don’t expect life to throw more bullshit at me so soon.

When I reach the final turn in the driveway, the dull roar starts.

What in the ever-loving hell?

Cameras flash above and through the black bars of Lincoln’s gate, capturing my walk of shame.

No. Not again.

My stomach drops when the paparazzi gathered there recognize me.

“Oh my God.”

“That’s her!”

“It’s Whitney Rango!”

How in God’s name did the vultures find Lincoln so quickly? We’re not in LA, and these aren’t reporters from the Gable Miner.

The story he showed me must have broken early this morning or late last night for them to be here by now.

“Whitney, are you and Lincoln Riscoff together?”

“Did you know that your husband was really a Riscoff?”

“Did you kill your husband so Lincoln could inherit?”

“How long has your affair with Lincoln Riscoff been going on?”

With every question they hurl like daggers, I want to turn around and run in the other direction. But I can’t. There’s nowhere to go but back to Lincoln’s front door, and my pride won’t allow that.

“Is it true that your dad killed Lincoln’s father when he tried to run away with your mother?”

The last question is like a punch to the gut. It shouldn’t surprise me that they latched onto that nugget.

“No comment,” I tell them as I take another step forward.

A rock digs into the ball of my foot, and I hop backward. It’s like my body knows better than I do that I can’t walk through that gate and face them. But what other choice do I have?