Eventually, the news reached Kristine.
She hadn't been actively looking for it—just scrolling casually through her feed when a familiar face caught her attention.
At first, she thought it was some kind of mistake, a lookalike. But the longer she stared, the colder the pit in her stomach grew.
There, in a dimly lit photo with tousled sheets and bare skin, was Sasha. Her best friend.
On top of Ross—the great Ross Oakley—the same man who was infamous for being untouchable, always in the center of some scandal or another.
He lay there smirking, hand resting on Sasha's thigh as she kissed his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And it didn't stop there.
Another photo. Then another. Then an entire thread, each more provocative than the last.
Sasha wearing nothing but Ross's shirt. Sasha with her leg draped over him.
Sasha's flushed face, lips parted, her body pressed against his.
