A Mirror Too Honest

A Mirror Too Honest

Hutton Ryte

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‎ ‎ ‎Sophia Hayes has perfected the art of control. In the high-pressure world of The Metropolitan, she's the youngest senior journalist ever hired-an achievement built on ruthless discipline, flawless execution, and a reputation that makes even seasoned reporters double-check their facts before speaking to her. She is sharp. Unshakeable. Precise to the bone. Her life runs on deadlines, color-coded calendars, and emotional walls tall enough to withstand anything. ‎ ‎Dean Mercer is everything she isn't-and everything she doesn't have time for. A wildly successful illustrator whose comic series Love Is a Mess has a cult following online, Dean lives in a world where structure is optional and inspiration is everything. His apartment is chaos. His sleep schedule is chaos. His heart is chaos. He creates brilliance in messy strokes but hides his deepest truths behind humor, charm, and a smile that masks more wounds than he lets on. ‎ ‎So when the magazine pairs them for a high-stakes project-a revolutionary feature blending investigative journalism with illustrated storytelling-everyone expects disaster. Sophia expects worse. ‎ ‎Their assignment: explore modern love through real stories across the city. Raw, unfiltered, unpredictable love. ‎ ‎Exactly the kind of assignment that makes Sophia want to run. ‎ ‎Dean arrives late to their first meeting with coffee stains and excuses. Sophia arrives with a binder thick enough to double as a weapon. Dean studies her timeline like it's written in a foreign language. Sophia studies Dean like he's a problem she needs to solve before he derails everything she's built. ‎ ‎Their partnership begins in sparks-sharp, heated, dangerous sparks. ‎Arguments disguised as discussions. ‎Discussions disguised as power struggles. ‎Power struggles disguised as creative differences. ‎ ‎But tension has a habit of twisting into something else when the nights grow long. ‎ ‎As they dive into the city-interviewing strangers whose love stories survived decades, storms, heartbreaks, second chances-something shifts between them. Slowly. Quietly. Against both of their wills. ‎ ‎Sophia begins to see past Dean's easy humor to the man underneath-the one who fears failing the people he cares about, who draws comics because it's the only way he knows how to tell the truth. And Dean sees the cracks in Sophia's armor-the vulnerability she protects like a secret, the softness she doesn't show, the fire in her that the world misunderstands as coldness. ‎ ‎Their conversations deepen. Their arguments soften. Their laughter blends. ‎And the chemistry-the kind they both pretend not to notice-tightens around them like an invisible thread. ‎ ‎But the closer they get, the heavier the air becomes. Because both of them are hiding something. ‎ ‎Sophia hides her fear of losing control. ‎Dean hides his fear of being the reason someone gets hurt. ‎ ‎And the feature they're creating-meant to uncover the truth about modern love-begins exposing truths they never meant to reveal. About each other. About themselves. ‎ ‎Their late-night work sessions grow intimate, electric. Their stories blur with the stories they're collecting. Dean sketches Sophia without meaning to-capturing expressions she never lets the world see. Sophia writes notes about him she can't bring herself to delete. Something real starts forming in the space between them, fragile but undeniable. ‎ ‎Until the past they both buried finds them. ‎ ‎A mistake from Dean's life-one he thought he'd left behind-reaches the editorial floor at the worst possible time. A detail with enough weight to derail the feature, shatter their progress, and wound the one person who finally saw him clearly. ‎ ‎Sophia's instinct is survival. Run before she gets hurt. Seal her heart before it cracks open. Dean's instinct is retreat. Protect her from the version of himself he fears is still true. ‎ ‎Deadlines tighten. Trust fractures. ‎Their work stalls, their communication splinters, and the connection they've been dancing around threatens to snap under the strain. ‎ ‎But desire doesn't listen to logic. ‎And hearts don't obey deadlines. ‎ ‎Even as they pull away, they keep orbiting each other-drawn back together by an ache neither can extinguish. Their arguments deepen into something rawer, heavier. Their silence holds more meaning than their words. ‎ ‎They must choose: ‎fight for the story that could define their careers... ‎or fight for the connection that could rewrite their futures. ‎ ‎And when an unexpected message, a truth revealed too late, and one irreversible decision collide, they're forced to confront the question their feature was meant to answer: ‎ ‎What does love look like today- ‎and can two people living at opposite rhythms find it before it slips through their fingers? ‎ ‎On the edge of losing their partnership... ‎their second chance... ‎and each other... ‎ ‎

Chapter 1 THE ASSIGNMENT NOBODY WANTS

CHAPTER 1 - THE ASSIGNMENT NOBODY WANTS

Sophia Hayes had survived worse mornings than this-broken printers, delayed sources, last-minute rewrites, and the occasional editor meltdown-but nothing prepared her for the email blinking at the top of her inbox like a dare.

SUBJECT: New Feature Collaboration Assignment - Needed ASAP.

She clicked it, expecting another high-stakes investigative report or a solo deep-dive into one of the rising social dilemmas she'd been pitching all month. Something big. Something worthy of her skillset. Something worthy of her reputation as the journalist who never missed.

Instead, her eyes froze on the words that should have come with a warning label.

"You will be partnering with Dean Mercer for our upcoming feature on modern love."

Sophia stared at the name.

Dean Mercer.

Dean freaking Mercer.

She exhaled through her nose, the way people did seconds before flipping a table.

Everyone in the office knew Dean. Not because he was a serious professional-God forbid-but because his messy curls, loud laugh, and chaotic comic art series had somehow become the magazine's viral golden child. His online fanbase worshipped him. Management adored his ability to turn anything into click-magnet humour. The internet treated him like a charming disaster they wanted to adopt.

Sophia treated him like a walking migraine.

They had spoken exactly twice. Both times he was late. And both times she had warned herself not to get dragged into the orbit of someone who functioned like human confetti-colourful, scattered, and impossible to control.

She read the email again.

"Modern Love: A multi-format feature blending narrative journalism and illustrated storytelling."

"Collaborative structure required."

"Deadline: 6 weeks."

"Schedule a joint kickoff meeting immediately."

Joint.

Collaboration.

Immediately.

Her brain short-circuited.

She closed her laptop before she threw it across the room.

It didn't matter that she had delivered award-nominated pieces. It didn't matter that she had pitched three fully-researched features this quarter. It didn't matter that she was the most reliable writer on staff.

This was her big assignment-

and they stuck her with an artist who didn't believe in schedules.

Perfect.

Just perfect.

Her phone buzzed. A message from her editor, Marianne.

Marianne: Saw the email? Stop making the face. It's good for you.

Sophia: Good for me how exactly??

Marianne: You need to loosen up. He needs to tighten up. Meet in the middle. It'll be magic.

Sophia: Or murder.

Marianne: I believe in you. And in your self-control.

Sophia: Your faith is misplaced.

Sophia dropped her forehead into her hands.

Magic.

Right.

The last time she and Dean had even been in the same room, he'd spilled coffee onto her notes while waving his hands around telling someone about "emotional elasticity in comedic timing."

Whatever that meant.

And now they were expected to write-together-a defining piece on love.

Yes. Murder was more likely.

She stood, straightened her blazer, and marched toward the bullpen with the dignity of someone who absolutely was not contemplating faking her own death.

The office was its usual blend of urgency and caffeine dependency. Phones rang. Keyboards clacked. Someone somewhere shouted about needing fact-checking "yesterday." It was home.

Until she reached his desk.

Dean's workspace looked like a gorgeous explosion. Sketchbooks everywhere. Mismatched pens. Sticky notes with half-ideas. Three empty energy drink cans. A tablet with a half-finished drawing-a cupid wearing headphones and sunglasses. Of course.

Dean himself was nowhere to be found.

Typical.

She folded her arms tightly, mentally drafting what she'd say when he finally wandered in at whatever time suited his artistic flow. Something professional. Something firm. Something that clearly stated: We do this my way or not at all.

But as she stood there, his sketchbook caught her eye.

She shouldn't look.

She absolutely shouldn't.

So naturally, she leaned closer.

The top page held a rough drawing of two figures standing on opposite sides of a city-one tense and precise with clean lines, the other loose and free, drawn in warm messy strokes. Between them, a skyline. With a heart stuck in the middle like an inconvenient truth neither knew what to do with.

She frowned.

Was this... him?

Was this... them?

Before she could decide whether to be irritated or weirdly thrown off balance, a voice behind her said:

"Careful. The characters in that one bite."

She spun around.

Dean Mercer leaned against the wall like he'd been placed there for dramatic effect. Tousled dark curls. Hoodie halfway zipped. A smile that looked too soft to be safe.

He was holding a smoothie with a neon straw like it was part of his personality.

"How long have you been standing there?" she demanded.

"Long enough to watch you almost snoop." He grinned. "I knew you'd cave."

"I wasn't snooping."

"Oh no, of course not. You were... appreciating the art?"

Sophia inhaled sharply.

"Where were you?" she snapped. "We have a mandatory meeting."

He blinked. "I was here."

"No, you weren't."

"No, I was," he said, pointing to a beanbag chair behind his desk she hadn't noticed. "I was lying down and contemplating the emotional architecture of love."

"...you were napping, weren't you?"

He sipped his smoothie. "With purpose."

Her eye twitched.

"Dean, this assignment is important," she began.

"I know." His voice softened unexpectedly. "It's the first meaningful piece they've trusted me with in months. I don't want to screw it up."

She blinked, startled by the sincerity.

But then he added cheerfully:

"So obviously, you're in charge."

"I-what?"

"You're the organised one. The planner. The queen of outlines." He bowed dramatically. "I surrender to the structure."

Sophia stared at him, caught between relief and suspicion.

"Good," she said slowly. "Then let's schedule-"

"But!" he cut in. "I have one request."

Her relief evaporated.

"Dean-"

"Just one," he insisted, raising a finger. "We do this together. Not just your way."

"That's not-"

"You don't get to run everything. I don't get to float around aimlessly. We find a middle. Deal?"

It was reasonable.

Irritatingly reasonable.

Sophia crossed her arms. "Fine. Middle."

Dean brightened like a child handed a paint set.

"Great! We should start by going outside."

She deadpanned. "Why?"

"Because inspiration. Because sunlight. Because humans. Because modern love is literally happening everywhere, and we can't write it from inside an office."

She opened her mouth to argue, but he was already gathering pens, sketchbook, tablet, and his smoothie with the efficiency of someone packing for a day trip he planned twelve seconds ago.

Against her better judgment, she followed him.

Their walk started in silence.

Sophia kept her pace controlled, professional, efficient. Dean, however, walked like he was on a scavenger hunt for life's hidden jokes. He stopped to watch a dog wearing a tiny raincoat. He paused to smile at a couple arguing playfully over a pastry. He sketched a child giving a pigeon a stern lecture.

Sophia watched him, annoyed but... grudgingly fascinated.

Everything seemed to inspire him. Everything had meaning. Everything was a story.

"So what do you think love looks like now?" he asked suddenly.

She wasn't prepared for the question.

"Love?" she echoed. "Love is... complicated."

"That's a cop-out."

"It's a summary."

He gave her a knowing look.

"You don't trust it."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

Sophia stiffened, caught off guard by how easily he read her.

"What about you?" she countered. "What does love look like to you?"

Dean shrugged. "Messy. Chaotic. Unpredictable. But worth it."

"Figures."

"What does that mean?"

"You find beauty in disorder," she said. "I find... danger."

He studied her for a moment too long.

"Well," he said softly, "maybe this assignment is supposed to teach us something."

She ignored the tightening in her stomach.

They walked in tense silence until they reached the waterfront. The breeze was cool, the city glowing beyond the river. Dean sat on a bench and started sketching rapidly, eyes flicking between her and the skyline.

She felt strangely exposed.

"What are you drawing?"

"Nothing important."

"Let me see."

"Nope."

"Dean."

He held the sketchbook against his chest protectively.

"It's not done."

"Then why did you look at me while drawing it?"

He froze.

For one fragile second-the playful mask slipped.

Dean looked at her with an expression she didn't know how to read.

Something softer. Something quieter. Something that made her breath catch.

"I draw what feels real," he said finally.

"And I feel real?" she asked before she could stop herself.

He swallowed.

"You're"-his voice faltered-"you're sharper than most people. Harder to capture. But... yeah. You feel real."

Sophia turned away, unsure what to do with the heat pooling in her chest.

It was too much.

Too early.

Too intimate.

"So," Dean said suddenly, forcing lightness back into his voice, "how do you think we should start the feature?"

"We outline interviews," she said. "We design a timeline. We identify themes."

"And then?"

"And then we begin drafting in segments, merging narrative and visual sections."

Dean nodded slowly.

"That... makes sense."

"Thank you."

"But," he added, "you're forgetting something."

"What?"

He angled his sketchbook, revealing just enough for her to see-

A rough drawing of her standing in the exact spot she was in now, hair tousled by the wind, gaze distant, expression unreadable... but powerful.

And across the page, written in the corner:

"Love doesn't follow structure. It breaks it."

Her breath hitched.

"Dean..."

But he wasn't looking at her anymore. His expression had shifted-darker, heavier, like a shadow had slipped beneath his smile.

"I didn't draw this today," he said, voice too quiet.

She blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I started it... weeks ago."

Sophia froze.

"Why?" she whispered.

Dean closed the sketchbook slowly-too slowly.

"We should head back," he said, standing before she could press further.

"No," she insisted, stepping in front of him. "Dean, why did you draw me before we were assigned together?"

He hesitated.

And then-

A phone buzzed sharply.

Dean looked at the screen.

His face drained of colour.

Sophia had never seen him look frightened.

Not once.

"What's wrong?" she demanded.

He didn't answer.

He just whispered:

"...This can't be happening."

"Dean-"

He turned to her slowly, eyes wide, voice trembling-

"Sophia... we have a problem."

Dean didn't move.

He didn't blink.

He didn't breathe.

He just stared at the glowing phone screen like it was a detonator and he was seconds away from blowing up everything he'd ever built-including the very thin, fragile thread of trust forming between them.

Sophia stepped closer.

"What happened?" she asked, her voice steady even as her pulse kicked up. "Dean, talk to me."

He swallowed hard, thumb hovering over the screen, fingers trembling.

"It's-" He stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. Exhaled shakily. "It's someone I didn't think I'd ever hear from again."

Her brows tightened.

"Who?"

Instead of answering, he shoved the phone in his pocket and took a shaky step away from her. The movement wasn't casual-it was evasive, defensive, scared.

Sophia's gut twisted.

Whatever this was, it wasn't small.

"Dean," she said carefully, "you're scaring me."

He laughed-not the warm, disarming laugh he was known for-but a broken, hollow one.

"Yeah," he muttered, "I'm scaring myself too."

She reached out instinctively, fingers brushing his sleeve.

He froze.

But he didn't pull away.

"What's going on?" she whispered.

He opened his mouth-

closed it-

then opened it again-

"It's someone I used to care about," he finally said. "Someone who... didn't exactly leave quietly."

Sophia's pulse stilled.

"A past relationship?"

Dean's jaw flexed.

"You could call it that." He rubbed his forehead. "But you'd be wrong."

She frowned. "Then what-?"

But he cut her off abruptly.

"Look, let's not do this here. Not now." He forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "We have work to do."

"You can't just pretend nothing happened," she argued. "You look like you saw a ghost."

He let out a breath.

"...I did."

The wind picked up, brushing cold air between them.

Sophia's voice lowered. "Dean. Who texted you?"

The question hung heavily.

He dug in his pocket again, pulled out the phone hesitantly, as if it physically hurt to show her.

The screen lit up.

One message.

One sender.

One line.

And not just any contact name.

A contact saved with no name at all-just an initial:

"M"

Sophia felt a sting of something she didn't want to name.

Before she could ask anything, Dean's phone buzzed again.

Another message from M.

Dean flinched.

This time, before he could hide it, she read the preview line lighting the screen:

"We're not finished. Answer me."

Sophia's heart dropped into her stomach.

"That doesn't sound like someone harmless," she murmured.

Dean shut off the phone like he was slamming a door.

"Let's go," he said, voice tight. "We need to get back."

But Sophia didn't move.

"Dean."

"Please," he said. "Just-drop it."

"No," she replied quietly. "Not when it clearly affects you. And not when we're supposed to be working closely for the next six weeks."

She took a steady breath.

"You need to tell me what's going on."

His shoulders slumped.

For a long moment, he just stood there, staring at the ground, twisting the strap of his sketchbook between his fingers.

Then-

"I didn't leave things clean," he admitted. "And someone got hurt. Badly."

Sophia's chest tightened.

"Did you... hurt them?" she asked carefully.

Dean met her eyes. His were dark, haunted.

"I didn't mean to," he whispered.

Something about the way he said it-so quiet, so raw-made her stomach flip.

She wanted to step closer. She wanted to step away.

She stayed exactly where she was.

"Is that why you drew me before the assignment?" she asked softly. "Because you knew something from your past was coming back?"

He blinked, startled.

"That-no." He rubbed his face. "That part has nothing to do with... this."

"Then what does it have to do with?"

For the second time that afternoon, Dean struggled to find words.

He opened his sketchbook slowly... but stopped short of revealing the page.

"You don't have to see this," he said, voice almost fragile. "Really. It's just... personal."

"Dean," she said gently, "you're a part of this story too. And whatever is affecting you will affect our work."

He exhaled shakily.

"You're going to think I'm ridiculous."

"Try me."

He hesitated-then finally flipped open the sketchbook.

Sophia looked down.

It was her.

Not polished, not poised-

but soft.

Unarmored.

Human.

A version of herself she didn't show anyone.

Her breath caught.

"It's... beautiful," she said quietly.

Dean's cheeks flushed faintly.

"I didn't mean to draw you," he murmured. "I don't usually draw people I barely know. But that day, you walked past the conference room window and-"

He broke off.

"And?" she whispered.

"You looked... lonely."

Sophia's chest constricted.

"And I thought," he continued, "maybe I should capture that before the world makes you hide it again."

She swallowed hard.

"Dean..."

"I know it was weird," he rushed. "And unprofessional. And probably invasive. I wasn't planning to show it to anyone. Especially not you."

He snapped the sketchbook shut.

"But then this assignment happened and I thought maybe-maybe-it meant something."

Sophia's mind spun.

She didn't know if it was comforting or terrifying that Dean had seen her with that much clarity before they'd even spoken properly.

But before she could decide how she felt-

Dean's phone buzzed again.

This time, he didn't check it.

He didn't have to.

Because seconds later-

Her phone buzzed too.

Sophia frowned and pulled it from her pocket.

Unknown number.

No contact.

Just a single message.

Her blood went cold.

"Tell Dean to answer me. You're with him, aren't you?"

She froze.

Dean saw her expression.

His skin went pale.

"What does it say?" he whispered.

She turned the screen toward him.

He stared at it in horror.

"Oh God," he breathed. "No. No, no-this isn't supposed to touch you."

Sophia felt her heart begin to pound, her body responding before her mind fully processed the fear curling in her stomach.

"Dean," she said slowly, "how does this person know about me?"

He didn't answer.

"Dean," she insisted, louder now, "how do they know I'm with you?"

He closed his eyes like he was bracing for impact.

"Sophia," he said quietly, voice trembling, "there's something I need to tell you. Something I should've told you the moment I got that first message."

She stepped back, adrenaline spiking.

"What did you do?" she demanded.

He met her gaze-haunted, guilty, desperate.

"I didn't tell you the truth," he said. "Not about the past. Not about 'M.' Not about why I drew you. Not about why they care."

Sophia's entire body went cold.

"Why do they care, Dean?" she whispered.

He opened his mouth.

But before he could answer-

Her phone buzzed again.

Another message.

Another line.

This time, it knocked the air from her lungs.

"If he won't answer, maybe you will."

Sophia's breath stopped.

Dean's face drained of every shade of colour.

"Sophia," he said hoarsely, "we need to leave. Right now."

"Dean," she whispered, shaking, "what's happening?"

And he finally said the words that changed everything:

"I think... I think you're in danger because of me."

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SHANA GRAY
4.3

I died on a Tuesday. It wasn't a quick death. It was slow, cold, and meticulously planned by the man who called himself my father. I was twenty years old. He needed my kidney to save my sister. The spare part for the golden child. I remember the blinding lights of the operating theater, the sterile smell of betrayal, and the phantom pain of a surgeon's scalpel carving into my flesh while my screams echoed unheard. I remember looking through the observation glass and seeing him-my father, Giovanni Vitiello, the Don of the Chicago Outfit-watching me die with the same detached expression he used when signing a death warrant. He chose her. He always chose her. And then, I woke up. Not in heaven. Not in hell. But in my own bed, a year before my scheduled execution. My body was whole, unscarred. The timeline had reset, a glitch in the cruel matrix of my existence, giving me a second chance I never asked for. This time, when my father handed me a one-way ticket to London-an exile disguised as a severance package-I didn't cry. I didn't beg. My heart, once a bleeding wound, was now a block of ice. He didn't know he was talking to a ghost. He didn't know I had already lived through his ultimate betrayal. He also didn't know that six months ago, during the city's brutal territory wars, I was the one who saved his most valuable asset. In a secret safe house, I stitched up the wounds of a blinded soldier, a man whose life hung by a thread. He never saw my face. He only knew my voice, the scent of vanilla, and the steady touch of my hands. He called me Sette. Seven. For the seven stitches I put in his shoulder. That man was Dante Moretti. The Ruthless Capo. The man my sister, Isabella, is now set to marry. She stole my story. She claimed my actions, my voice, my scent. And Dante, the man who could spot a lie from a mile away, believed the beautiful deception because he wanted it to be true. He wanted the golden girl to be his savior, not the invisible sister who was only ever good for her spare parts. So I took the ticket. In my past life, I fought them, and they silenced me on an operating table. This time, I will let them have their perfect, gilded lie. I will go to London. I will disappear. I will let Seraphina Vitiello die on that plane. But I will not be a victim. This time, I will not be the lamb led to slaughter. This time, from the shadows of my exile, I will be the one holding the match. And I will wait, with the patience of the dead, to watch their entire world burn. Because a ghost has nothing to lose, and a queen of ashes has an empire to gain.

Rejected Heiress: My Heartless Family's Regret

Rejected Heiress: My Heartless Family's Regret

Cassandra
5.0

For seventeen years, I was the pride of the Carlisle family, the perfect daughter destined to inherit an empire. But that life ended the moment a DNA report slid across my father’s mahogany desk. The paper proved I was a stranger. Vanessa, the girl sobbing in the corner, was the real biological daughter they had been searching for. "You need to leave. Tonight. Before the press gets wind of this. Before the stock prices dip." My father’s voice was as cold as flint. My mother wouldn't even look at me, staring out the window at the gardens as if I were already a ghost. Just like that, I was erased. I left behind the Birkin bags and the diamonds, throwing my Centurion Card into a crystal bowl with a clatter that echoed like a gunshot. I walked out into the cold night and climbed into a rusted Ford Taurus driven by a man I had never met—my biological father. I went from a mansion to a fourth-floor walk-up in Queens that smelled of laundry detergent and struggle. My new siblings looked at me with a mix of fear and disgust, waiting for the "fallen princess" to break. They expected me to beg for my old life back, to crumble without the luxury I’d known since birth. But they didn't know the truth. I had spent years training in a shark tank, honing survival skills they couldn't imagine. While Richard Carlisle froze my trust funds to starve me out, my net worth was climbing by millions on an encrypted trading app. They thought they were throwing me to the wolves. They didn't realize they were just letting me off my leash. As the Carlisles prepared to debut Vanessa at the Manhattan Arts Gala, I was already making my move. "Get dressed. We're going to a party."

Chapters
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A Mirror Too Honest
1

Chapter 1 THE ASSIGNMENT NOBODY WANTS

26/11/2025

2

Chapter 2 LATE, LOUD, AND INFURIATING

26/11/2025

3

Chapter 3 DEADLINES VS. DOODLES

26/11/2025

4

Chapter 4 A STORY ABOUT LOVE... WITHOUT LOVE

26/11/2025

5

Chapter 5 THE WALK THAT WASN'T SUPPOSED TO MATTER

26/11/2025

6

Chapter 6 A GLIMPSE BEHIND HIS LAUGHTER

26/11/2025

7

Chapter 7 ORDER MEET CHAOS

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8

Chapter 8 THE INTERVIEW THAT GETS TOO PERSONAL

26/11/2025

9

Chapter 9 COFFEE, NIGHT AIR, AND ALMOSTS

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10

Chapter 10 THE SKETCH SHE WASN'T MEANT TO SEE

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11

Chapter 11 A FIGHT AND A REVELATION

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12

Chapter 12 STORIES THAT HIT TOO CLOSE

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13

Chapter 13 THE NIGHT THEY DON'T WANT TO END

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14

Chapter 14 A LINE CROSSED

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15

Chapter 15 THE UNSENT MESSAGE

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16

Chapter 16 ALMOST SOMETHING

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17

Chapter 17 THE DEADLINE GROWS TEETH

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18

Chapter 18 A SECRET FROM DEAN'S PAST

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19

Chapter 19 PULLING BACK, RUNNING SCARED

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20

Chapter 20 THE INTERVIEW THAT BREAKS SOPHIA

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21

Chapter 21 MISSTEPS AND MISUNDERSTANDINGS

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22

Chapter 22 TO STAY OR TO QUIT

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23

Chapter 23 THE TRUTH BETWEEN LINES

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24

Chapter 24 THE DEADLINE ULTIMATUM

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25

Chapter 25 LOCKED IN TOGETHER

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26

Chapter 26 THE KISS THAT CHANGES EVERYTHING

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27

Chapter 27 THE MORNING AFTER DISASTER

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28

Chapter 28 THE FEATURE REDEEMS ITSELF

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29

Chapter 29 THE PAST COMES KNOCKING

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30

Chapter 30 SOPHIA'S BREAKING POINT

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31

Chapter 31 SOMETHING REAL, SOMETHING TERRIFYING

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32

Chapter 32 DEAN'S CHOICE, DEAN'S MISTAKE

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33

Chapter 33 SILENCE WHERE WORDS SHOULD BE

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34

Chapter 34 THE FEATURE THAT GOES VIRAL

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35

Chapter 35 THE INTERVIEW REQUEST THEY REFUSE

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36

Chapter 36 SOPHIA WALKS AWAY

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37

Chapter 37 THE SKETCHBOOK LEFT BEHIND

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38

Chapter 38 THE CONFESSION THAT CHANGES EVERYTHING

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39

Chapter 39 A RISK BIGGER THAN LOVE

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40

Chapter 40 THE CONFRONTATION

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