She honestly couldn’t remember.
If she had met a guy that distinctive, she definitely wouldn’t have forgotten him.
“Do I know him?” she asked.
“Remember at the Parsons’ house? My dad brought him in to consult on your recovery. You two met then,” Chelsea explained.
Patricia just shook her head. “I don’t remember at all.”
Chelsea linked arms with her as they made their way to a stone bench in the yard. “Makes sense. You were in your own little world back then. Even Grandma couldn’t get through to you, let alone some stranger. Don’t overthink it.”
Back then, Patricia was at her lowest point.
She was strung so tight she could snap, refusing to accept what had happened to her leg.
Every top specialist in Riverdale had told her there was no hope—and that alone was enough to break anyone.
Who notices the sun shining when their own world is pouring rain?
They sat together in the courtyard, chatting aimlessly, when Patricia’s phone started buzzing nonstop.
She glanced at the screen—notifications were blowing up her group chat.
There were six people in the group—her, and the five medical staff who’d helped with her rehab. Usually, they were all business, but today, the messages were flying so fast she could barely keep up.
Apparently, a photo posted earlier that afternoon had thrown the internet into chaos.
The comment section was brutal.
“Ugh! That cheating scumbag—caught red-handed and still denying it. How many times has he done this?”
“I feel so bad for his wife. And that girl—does she actually think being the side chick is something to brag about? The guy’s PR team is scrambling, meanwhile his girlfriend’s online flaunting their relationship. The stupidity is unreal.”
“And he sent the proof straight to his own wife!!”
“I’m so mad I could scream...”
“What are you looking at?” Chelsea raised an eyebrow, peering at Patricia’s phone.


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