Act Like You Love Me (Jessica) novel Chapter 28

Chapter 28

Jessica’s POV

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I slipped out of the walk–in closet, tugging at the hem of my oversized hoodie. The one that had become my armor against the world.

The soft fabric smelled faintly of laundry detergent, a small comfort in the chaos of my morning routine.

I’d spent way too long in there, staring at my reflection in the full–length mirror, trying to psych myself up for the day ahead.

My eyes were still a little puffy from last night’s emotional rollercoaster, but a splash of cold water and some sunscreen had done the trick. Or at least, I hoped it had.

As I padded down the short hallway toward the living room, a strong, comforting aroma of black coffee filled the air, cutting through the silence and drawing me toward the kitchen.

It was Aaron’s signature brew: dark roast, no sugar, the kind that could wake the dead.

Our apartment wasn’t always lively, but it felt like home in moments like this, with the morning light filtering through those heavy curtains he loved so much.

I could hear his voice before I saw him, low and steady, carrying from the couch where he lounged with his phone pressed to his ear.

“I’m glad to hear that you’re doing alright,” he said, his tone warm, almost affectionate. “I’ll come visit later tonight.”

The words turned my blood to ice. Jealousy flared up instantly, hot and irrational, burning in my chest.

Who the hell was he talking to? A new girl? Some ex he’d never mentioned? My mind raced through possibilities, each one more painful than the last.

I was tempted to walk over and question him, to demand to know who he was making plans with, but I remembered the cold response to his question from last night.

I hadn’t answered him. I had shut him out.

If I asked him now, he’d probably brush me off or snap back with that arrogant edge he pulled out when he was frustrated.

Tit for tat, right? I didn’t deserve answers if I wasn’t giving any.

I froze in the doorway, my footsteps light as feathers on the hardwood floor.

Aaron glanced up, his dark eyes meeting mine for a split second before he ended the call with a quick “Talk soon.”

He set the phone down on the coffee table, steam rising from his mug.

I couldn’t bring myself to say anything. The jealousy gnawed at me, a persistent itch I couldn’t scratch. Instead, I grabbed my backpack from the hook by the door, slung it over my shoulder, and headed out without a word.

The door clicked shut behind me, and I could feel the bug of it settling in my stomach like a stone.

The walk to campus was a blur, the Florida sun already beating down despite the early hour. By the time I slid into my seat for my first class–Intro to Media Ethics, a required course that dragged on forever, my mind was still tangled in that phone call.

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Chapter 28

The lecture hall was half–full, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead as Professor Ramirez droned on about journalistic integrity and the pitfalls of sensationalism.

I scribbled notes absentmindedly, but my thoughts wandered far from the PowerPoint slides.

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God, I couldn’t wait to graduate. These lectures felt like endless loops, recycling the same ideas until they lost all meaning.

I wasn’t here for the theory; I wanted the real deal–investigative journalism, the kind where you dig deep into people’s lives, unearth hidden truths, and uncover those juicy stories that make headlines.

Picture this: me. Jessica Reid, tailing a corrupt politician or exposing a corporate scandal, piecing together clues like a detective in a thriller novel.

No more sitting in stuffy classrooms, pretending to care about ethical dilemmas when the world out there was full of real ones waiting to be cracked open. But for now, I was stuck, counting down the minutes until lunch.

The bell finally rang….or whatever the college equivalent was, a collective shuffle of notebooks and laptops closing. I bolted out, and wove myself through the crowded hallways.

My feet carried me automatically to the basketball court. It was a habit now–a necessary moment in the day to watch Aaron move, to feel the familiar thump of the ball, to see him in his element and remind myself why betraying him felt impossible.

But when I reached the familiar glass walls, Aaron wasn’t there.

Instead, a different coach was leading the practice–a large, cheerful man everyone knew as “Bieber.”

My shoulders slumped in immediate, palpable disappointment.

The energy I had reserved for this one glimpse of normalcy instantly evaporated. I realized how much I had been depending on seeing him, even if we were still engulfed in that suffocating silence.

I sighed, and turned to leave, my sneakers scuffing against the pavement.

That’s when I bumped straight into a solid chest. “Whoa, easy there,” a voice drawled, laced with a smug confidence.

I looked up, and my stomach dropped. Martin freaking Caldwell–the epitome of every rich, arrogant frat boy cliché.

He was tall, with perfectly gelled brunette hair and a smirk that screamed entitlement, he came from old money, the kind that bought his way into this school despite his mediocre grades and penchant for trouble.

His family name was plastered on half the buildings around campus.

Flanking him was his usual minion, a weaselly guy named Trent, who laughed at everything Martin said like it was comedy gold.

“Sorry,” I muttered, stepping back to sidestep him. But Martin shifted, blocking my path with casual ease.

“Chill, hoodie girl,” he said, his eyes raking over me like I was a puzzle he was just now noticing. “I just want to talk to you.”

Irritation flared. For the last three years, I’d been invisible; a ghost in baggy clothes, blending into the background to avoid exactly this kind of attention. And now, suddenly I was on radar?

“Move,” I said, my voice low and strained. “I don’t want to talk to you, and I don’t want trouble.”

He planted his feet, blocking the narrow walkway between the bleachers and the exit.

“A bit feisty, aren’t we? It’s cute. Especially for someone who throws themselves at the first decent paycheck that walks by.” He used a light, almost conversational tone, the perfect deceptive pitch designed to sound like casual flirting to any distant

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passerby

I tried to push past him again, my shoulder brushing his arm. But this time, he grabbed my wrist harshly.

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Pain shot up my arm, and I yanked back, but he held firm. Arousl us, students hurried by, heads down, no one daring to intervene.

Martin was untouchable; everyone knew it.

“Let go. I hissed. panic bubbling under my anger.

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against my ear.

“You know, the whole school’s talking about you and Aaron Tyrone. How you threw yourself at him like some desperate slut. I’m surprised you’re not a baby mama yet–bet he’s worn that pussy out by now.”

The words were a stomach–turning jab, aimed straight below the belt. Humiliation burned in my chest, mixing with rage.

How dare he? Before I could spit back a response–something sharp, something to wipe that smirk off his face–a hand clamped down on Martin’s shoulder from behind.

In a blur, Martin was yanked backward, his grip on me releasing as he was slammed to the ground with a thud that echoed across the court.

Gasps rippled through the gathering crowd, phones already out to capture the drama.

Aaron stood over him, fists clenched, his face a mask of pure rage–like boiling rocks ready to erupt. Martin’s eyes in shock, and Trent bolted like a scared rabbit, disappearing into the throng of onlookers.

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Aaron didn’t hesitate; he dropped down, pummeling Martin with blow after blow–fists connecting with jaw, ribs, whatever he could reach. The sounds were sickening: thuds, grunts, the crack of bone maybe.

“Stop! Aaron, stop!” someone yelled from the crowd. More voices joined in, a chorus of pleas as people edged closer but kept their distance.

No one wanted to get in the middle of this.

Aaron was far gone, his eyes wild, muscles straining under his shirt.

I just stood there, frozen, watching in stunned silence. Part of me was horrified, another part… relieved? Grateful? He’d come out of nowhere, defending me like I was worth fighting for.

“How dare you disrespect her?” Aaron growled between punches his voice raw and thunderous. “You messed with the wrong girl, you piece of shit.”

Martin groaned, blood trickling from his lip, trying to shield his face. The crowd swelled, murmurs turning to shouts.

I snapped out of my daze when a passerby nudged my arm–hard–jostling me forward.

“Hey, you gonna do something? He’s gonna kill him!”

Reality crashed back. “Aaron!” I cried, lunging forward and grabbing his arm mid–swing. “Stop! Please, stop!”

He paused, chest heaving, his knuckles bloody and raw.

Our eyes met, and for a second, the rage flickered, replaced by something softer–concern? Regret? But the damage was done, and as security sirens wailed in the distance, I wondered what fresh hell this would unleash.

The rest of the afternoon blurred into a haze of adrenaline and aftermath. Campus security hauled Aaron away for

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questioning. Martin’s rich daddy no doubt already on the phone with lawyers.

I gave my statement in a sterile office, my voice shaking as I recounted the grab, the threats, the fight.

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By the time I stumbled back to the apartment, the sun was dipping low, casting long shadows across the estate grounds.

I dropped my backpack by the door, the silence of the place mocking me. Aaron wasn’t home yet–probably still dealing with the fallout.

My mind replayed the scene over and over: his fury, the way he protected me without a second thought. It stirred something deep, a warmth that clashed with the lingering jealousy from this morning.

Who had he been talking to? And why does our relationship feel like we were trapped on a rickety seesaw, one minute reaching for the sky with hope, the next minute crashing down to the dirt.