I took it from him, frowning, confused. I flipped it over, tapped the cover. “Babe, you look fucking hotter than hell. This isn’t bad. This is great.”
Dean didn’t smile. He didn’t even look up.
“Lookinside,” he said quietly.
I opened the magazine, flipping through the glossy pages, past the interview spread, past the double-page photo shoot of Dean looking so damn fuckable it made me hard.
But that’s not what he wanted me to look at.
It took me a second to notice.
The headlines on some of the pages… little pieces of them were missing. Tiny chunks of words clipped out, leaving awkward gaps in the page titles. Letters gone here and there. Sliced so clean I might’ve missed it if I wasn’t looking closely.
I flipped faster, my brow furrowing deeper.
Then I found it.
Tucked between two pages, half -folded, was a piece of paper.
My stomach dropped before I even unfolded it.
The letters that had been cut out from the magazine headlines were pasted onto the sheet of paper in uneven rows.
This will be your last—
The message stopped there.
Unfinished.
My throat went dry.
I stared at the paper, then back down at the magazine in my hands, and my mind reeled—adding it up, the missing letters, the cut headlines, the careful, deliberate placement.
I lifted my eyes to Dean.
He was watching me.
Silent.
Fragile.
His chest rising and falling too fast, fingers white-knuckled against the desk.
“Dean?” My voice caught.
The room swayed a little under my feet.
I couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t think straight.
The horror of it crept in, slow, cold.
“Dean…” My grip tightened on the magazine, my heart pounding so hard I felt sick. “Babe…are you—”
I couldn’t finish the question.
I didn’t have to.
