Sydney: I Believe You.

What if you knew your happiness was about to turn into a nightmare so implausible even a top-tier thriller author would send it back for edits?

Would you want the warning—or would you rather enjoy the blissful ignorance while you still can?

This is me—blissfully unaware—before some overcaffeinated thriller writer grabbed the pen and freelanced my life.

I’m curled up on the giant windowsill like I’m auditioning for “Coziest Cinnamon Roll Alive”—legs tucked, hoodie sleeves over my hands, full dramatic sigh. You know, the kind that would totally get me an Oscar in the rom-com category.

Christian’s sweatshirt is drowning me. Not “oh, it’s roomy” drowning—more like “I could smuggle a toddler and three throw pillows” drowning. And it’s perfect. The inside is soft in that magic way where you know a hundred washes have turned it into fabric butter, and when I breathe in? Oh. My. Gosh. Instant weakness.

It smells like cedarwood and that faint cologne he pretends isn’t cologne—like, please. The man smells like he moonlights in a high-end mountain lodge commercial. Every time. The second it hits my nose, my bones just… resign. Total no-spine situation. I melt into a full-on puddle of Sydney. Honestly, if you looked close, you’d just see a sweatshirt with feelings staring out the window.

I close my eyes for just a second and—yep—there he is. In my head, as clear as ever. Teasing me with that signature smirk like I’ve just committed some kind of fashion felony.

“Sydney. How many pairs of shoes do you need… for each day? Are you staging a runway show between meals?”

And me? Shrugging like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Maybe I like to change shoes every two hours. Maybe it’s a mood-based system. Maybe you should try it.”

And then him, grinning, shaking his head, whistling that one random ‘90s one-hit-wonder he knows will burrow into my brain and live rent-free for the next three days. (It works. Ugh.)

Outside, the city is having a moment. Neon signs fizz in hot pinks and electric greens, splashing color all over the wet sidewalks like someone turned the whole street into a moving painting. Tires hiss through puddles, horns stab the air, and somewhere nearby, a saxophone belts out a solo so smooth it practically slides up the side of the building. People rush past in tank tops and flip-flops, tossing little bursts of joy into the night like confetti.

I lean my forehead against the glass—it’s cold and kind of grounding—and just soak it all in, my breath fogging a tiny circle in front of me. My fingers automatically find a split end and start twisting it around like I’m braiding secrets into my hair.

And then—bam—it hits me. Like my brain just hit play on one of those all-time-favorite-Christian moments. I see him, clear as day, standing there with a fifty-dollar bill pinched between two fingers, wearing that smirk. You know the one—the infuriatingly adorable “I’m definitely up to something, but you’re still going to fall for it” smirk. And his eyes? They sparkled, alive, practically waltzing. Honestly, it’s unfair how charming he is when he’s scheming.

I remember blinking at the money. “Um… okay… what’s this for?”

He grinned like he was about to saw a lady in half on stage. “It’s a challenge. Thirty minutes. You buy me an outfit, I buy you one. Whatever we pick? The other person has to wear it. Whole date. No take-backs.

I paused, narrowing my eyes. “Wait—like… seriously?

“Completely serious. No returns, no swaps, no calling your stylist for backup.” He practically glowed with smug energy.

Obviously, my competitive, fashion-loving soul was already at the starting line.

“Ha—okay. Fine. But I need your sizes.” I asked, all business.

Christian just backed away. “Yeah, that would make it way too easy. So… good luck, You’ll figure it out. I believe in you.”

Spoiler alert: I did not figure it out.

We took off through the mall like contestants on Supermarket Sweep, darting in opposite directions—bags bouncing, people dodging, me in heels trying not to wipe out in front of a pretzel stand. It was chaos.

Glorious, ridiculous, slightly anxiety-inducing chaos.

Here’s the thing—I love shopping. I thrive in shopping. But this? This was hard. Men’s clothes are confusing and, like… offensively expensive. I could’ve bought a really nice blender. Or one shoe. Not a pair. Just a single, designer orphan of a shoe.

And apparently, I know everything about Christian—his favorite snacks, the exact way he tilts his head when he’s thinking, his go-to victory dance— but his clothing sizes? Nope. Not even close. Total mystery.

To make things worse, the man is ridiculously athletic but insists on dressing like a high school skater who lost a bet. Nothing fits him the way it’s supposed to. Or, like, nothing should fit him and yet somehow it all kinda does? It’s confusing and unfair.

So… I may or may not have texted his mom. Desperate times. Don’t judge me.

Five minutes left. My entire fashion vision board? Gone. This was survival mode. I grabbed the nearest semi-coordinated outfit, tossed cash at the cashier, and sprinted toward the restrooms like I was making a break for the last lifeboat off the Titanic.

We swapped bags outside the restrooms, and the second I saw his face, I knew I was doomed. That smirk. The “I did something, and I regret absolutely nothing” smirk.

I stepped into the stall, took a breath, and pulled out the first item.

A necklace.

Wait… what?

It was delicate and gold, with a matching bracelet. My brain short-circuited. Christian bought me jewelry? I ran my fingers over the chain, and my heart did that little flutter thing it does when he says something sweet in that low voice of his.

I reached in again… and pulled out a dress.

Not just a dress—the dress.

I just stared, completely speechless. It was soft. Elegant. Effortless. The kind of dress that makes you stand taller without even thinking about it. I slipped it on and turned to the mirror, my breath catching. It fit. Perfectly. Like it was meant for me.

I turned to the mirror and ran my hands down the material, my heart squeezing in my chest.

How? Fifty dollars. Thirty minutes. A crowded mall. And somehow… he found this.

I just shook my head and smiled like a total sap.

There was one bag left. I peeked inside, bracing myself—and yep. Shoes. Not just any shoes. Shoes that matched the dress perfectly.

I laughed—soft, breathless, completely stunned. I wanted to be mad that he pulled it off, but instead I just… melted. Right there in the dressing room. Because of course. This was so very Christian.

I stepped out of the restroom, still wrestling with the clasp on the bracelet—seriously, who makes these things, elves?—and then I saw him. And I lost it.

Like—full-body, doubled-over, can’t-breathe lost it.

Because Christian’s outfit? Oh. My. Gosh. Disaster. His pants were tragic little high-water nightmares, stopping a good two inches above his ankles like he was prepping for a flood drill. The shirt clung for dear life—buttons straining, one wrong move and we’re all in danger. And the shoes. Brown suede. With tassels. Tassels. I couldn’t.

Our eyes met.

Boom.

We detonated into laughter.

He doubled over, wheezing, while I bent at the waist, holding my stomach, gasping for air between bursts of giggles.

“You—oh my gosh—you look like you just stepped out of a clown car!” I squealed, tears streaming.

“Yeah, thanks, trust me, I’m aware,” he groaned, tugging at the death-grip shirt. “Turns out men’s fashion isn’t exactly your Olympic event.”

He finally straightened, still laughing, then -ugh-hit me with that look. You know the one—smug, twinkly-eyed, full of undeserved confidence.

“Well,” he said, flashing that infuriatingly cute grin, “I think it’s safe to say I won this round.”

I crossed my arms, narrowed my eyes. “Ha-no. Absolutely not. There’s no way you bought all this with just fifty dollars. The dress? The shoes? Jewelry? Nuh-uh. Not possible.”

His grin widened. He said nothing.

Christian.” [pause] “Christian.”

He shrugged, casual as ever. “Who said anything about a fifty-dollar budget?”

“Uh—you did,” I shot back, glaring.

He smirked—and ugh, why is it still cute? Why does my stomach do that stupid fluttery thing? “Nope. I handed you fifty dollars. That’s all,” he said, way too pleased with himself.

I let out the biggest huff, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. But honestly? Losing battle. Because he stood there with that sparkle in his eyes and that ridiculous grin, and—ugh—it’s impossible to stay mad at him. “Yeah, but the way you said it totally sounded like we both had to stick to fifty bucks.”

He shrugged again. “Yeah… Probably.”

I groaned, throwing my head back with an exaggerated eye roll, but—ugh—there it is. That stupid, traitorous grin tugging at my lips anyway.

And even as I stood there, half-annoyed, half-enchanted, I couldn't help but think...

I am so, so in trouble with this man.

Then his fingers grazed the small of my back, grounding and electric all at once. “Just so you know…” his voice dipped soft, low, “you look absolutely beautiful.”

Aaaand there went my ability to form words. Or breathe. Or remember what a complete sentence even was.

For a moment, we’re just there—in that quiet, fragile bubble where the whole mall fades. His thumb brushed the inside of my wrist, barely there, and my heartbeat suddenly broadcasting in surround sound.

Eventually, we walked.

We strolled through the mall, the energy of the place buzzing around us—kids dragging exhausted parents from store to store, teenage packs pretending not to care while absolutely trying to be seen, and couples walking hand in hand. The smell of cinnamon pretzels and wildly overpriced pizza floated through the air, tempting me hard.

I sneaked a peak at him—shoulders loose, smile smug, walking like he just won Olympic gold. And the dress? Yeah, I loved it. But what I loved even more was that he picked it. Still blows my mind that he somehow nailed the sizes like it was nothing.

“Alright, spill it,” I said, bumping my shoulder into him. “How did you actually guess my size?”

Christian flashed me that grin- the one that’s likely gotten him out of a thousand tight spots. “Simple. I just asked for size perfect.”

I scoffed, nudging him playfully. “Oh, really? You are so full of it.”

"No, really," he insisted, his confidence unwavering. "It’s quite simple."

I arched a brow. "Simple, huh? Prove it."

Right on cue, we passed a store window, and I spotted a pair of jeans I actually liked—which was a miracle in itself. I stopped, pointed. Challenge accepted.

"Okay, genius," I said, crossing my arms. "I want these. In my size. Let’s see you pull off your little Size Perfect trick."

Without blinking, Christian flagged down a sales associate. He held up the jeans and said, “Hi, yeah- we need these in size perfect. For her.”

I tilted my head, narrowing my eyes at him with a playfully flirtatious glare. “You did not just—”

The associate? Didn’t even blink. Gave me a once-over, nodded like this was completely normal, and disappeared. Thirty seconds later, he returned, jeans in hand, and handed them straight to Christian.

Christian grinned as he handed them over. “See? Foolproof.”

I took the jeans from him. I swear, if these actually fit, I’ll never hear the end of it. I glanced down at the tag. Too small. Yes! Victory.

I lifted them like a trophy. “Ha! These wouldn’t fit me if I stopped breathing.”

Christian just shrugged, picture of calm mischief. “Only one way to find out.

I squinted at him. “Fine,” I muttered. “Victory delayed, not denied.”

I snatched a blouse off the rack and marched into the dressing room and braced myself for the usual denim cage match. The tugging, the squatting, the wrestling with buttons. But… nope. They slipped on. Effortless. Like butter. Like magic.

I stepped out, did a slow spin in front of the mirror, utterly baffled. “How?” I mumbled, half to myself.

And there he was—leaning against the wall, arms crossed, smug grin dialed to maximum.

“Told you,” he said, pure glee in his voice. “Your size perfect.”

I shook my head, laughing under my breath. He always knows what to say.

And the worst part?

I loved it.

My phone buzzes on the windowsill, pulling me right out of my dreamy little memory reel. I blink, focus—and the second I see Christian’s name glowing on the screen, warmth fills my chest like sunlight flooding a cold room.

I swipe to answer, already smiling. “Hey, you.”

His voice—smooth, teasing, familiar—melts the distance in a heartbeat. “So, I saw this woman at the Olympics last week. Absolutely stunning. Runs like lightning. Won a handful of gold medals. Any chance you know where I can track her down?”

I bite my lip, grinning so hard it hurts. “Mmm, sorry—she’s already married to some ridiculously amazing guy. But lucky for you? I’m available.”

He laughs, low and warm, the kind of sound that always feels like home. “I miss you like crazy.”

My throat tightens. “I miss you and the kids like something fierce,” I murmur, twisting a loose thread on his sweatshirt. “How were the kids’ games? Team parties?”

I close my eyes, curl deeper into the fabric, and pretend for one fragile second that I’m not thousands of miles away. Pretend I’m right there, tucked under his arm, humming in the quiet peace of home.

“Loud. Sticky. Way too much sugar,” he says. “Jaxon ended up with icing in his ear—don’t ask. Charlee staged a full-blown coup and rebranded the team as ‘Sparkletopia.’ And I’m pretty sure the coach now needs counseling. Honestly? It was a beautiful disaster.”

I giggle, picturing every bit of the chaos. “Sounds like I missed the real closing ceremony.”

I can hear his grin through the line. “You did. Speaking of closing ceremonies—how was yours? Any rogue fireworks? Flag bearers on strike? Surprise interpretive dance from Team Kazakhstan?”

“Actually, yes to two of those,” I say, smirking. “Not telling you which.”

He mock gasps, “Unbelievable. I marry you, and you still keep state secrets from me.”

Then reality pricks. The time. The routines I’ve missed—prayers, scripture study, bedtime kisses, the laughter of Would You Rather. They were here with me thirty-six hours ago, but I miss them like I’ve been gone for months. My voice softens, almost breaking. “Did I… did I miss Would You Rather?”

“Oh, you did,” Christian says, chuckling. “Duck feet, glitter sneezes, raccoon stand-up—honestly, I don’t know whether to be proud of their creativity or quietly Google child psychologists.”

“Let’s go with both,” I quip. “They definitely get the creativity from me. The drama, though? That’s all you.”

He makes a mock-offended noise. “Drama? Me? Please. I’m the calm, rational one.”

I giggle, shaking my head. “Says the man who once gave a full-on eulogy for sharp cheese.”

“Fair point.” He teases, “Which is why I’m saying this: you’ve had your moment in Europe, but I’m outnumbered, outmaneuvered, and, frankly, outwitted by two sets of twins. So yeah—just get home. Immediately, if not sooner.”

I laugh. “Deal.” Then my voice drops—slow, flirty, dangerous. “But one more thing. Would you rather… give up ice cream forever, or never kiss me again?”

He gasps like I’ve stabbed him. “You monster. I thought we agreed never to bring ice cream into marital negotiations.”

“Answer carefully, Mr. Devereaux. Your future depends on it.” I tease, drawing out the words.

He sighs dramatically, the kind of sigh that belongs in Shakespeare. “Fine. I’ll break up with Cold Stone. But I’m bitter about it. And I’m doubling my pancake intake with an obscene amount of maple syrup. Tell Cookie Dough… she was my first love.”

I snort, nearly dropping the phone. “You’re so dramatic.”

And then we’re just… us. Teasing, tossing jokes back and forth like we’re still two kids on our very first date.

He tells me how Bryce and Chase decided they wanted a white lab, so they made one—recipe: one black lab, one bag of flour, instant disaster. I counter with a dramatic play-by-play of a ceremony mishap that nearly went viral.

It’s silly. It’s easy. It’s effortless. We laugh, we tease, we flirt like we’re still dating—because maybe, in the best ways, we always are.

Neither of us wants the call to end. But of course it has to. Time cheats you hardest when you need it most.

My voice softens, that Sydney-soft that only he gets. “I just want to be home with you.”

And his voice—low, gentle, raw—meets me there. “And all I want is you in my arms. I love you.”

My chest tightens. “I love you too.”

I smile into the quiet, clutching his words like they’re something I can carry.

When the call ends, I stare at the screen for a second longer before finally setting the phone down. A sigh escapes, exhaustion pressing heavily across my shoulders. But the promise of home pulls me up again.

I zip my suitcase, sling my backpack over one shoulder, and step into the hallway. The door clicks shut behind me, soft and final. My footsteps echo down the carpeted hall of the hotel—each step a little closer to the only gold medal I actually care about.

My family.

***

The plane touches down with a jolt, stirring me from my sleep. My eyes snap open to the muted glow of cabin lights, and for a hot second, I have no clue where I am. Then it clicks.

Home.

Well… almost.

I stretch, rolling out the stiffness in my shoulders and cracking my neck like I’ve been asleep for years. Christian’s sweatshirt is all twisted, and my face feels puffy, like it gave up halfway through the nap. I stumble to the bathroom, splash cool water on my cheeks, and stare into the mirror. Yep. Olympic champion… raccoon-eyed edition.

But then I think of him. Just a little longer, and I’ll be wrapped in Christian’s arms. That thought alone curves my lips into a smile.

I pull the sleeves of his sweatshirt over my hands—instant comfort—and grab my bag. One last breath before the door opens.

But the second it does… something’s off.

The rush of fresh air doesn’t feel fresh. It feels… sharp. Electric. Like static crawling over my skin.

Then I see them.

Lights. Flashes. Voices. A wall of people waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Cameras strobing, reporters shouting over each other, bodies pressing forward in a blur of motion. It’s chaos.

I’d prepped myself for maybe a little press. A handful of questions about medals, some cheers, a quick autograph, a wave. Something very small.

This? This is… something else.

I freeze at the top of the stairs, muscles locking tight, one foot suspended mid-step as the shouts rise up toward me.

“Sydney, are the accusations true?”

I freeze.

Accusations? What accusations?

“Why did you do it?”

Do what? What are they talking about?

“There are twenty-three victims—how many more are there?”

Victims?

“What does your family think of you being a fraud?”

“Do you think that you’ll go to prison?”

“What do you say to the young girls who looked up to you?”

A chill shoots through me. I glance around, desperate—praying this is some twisted mix-up, that they’ve mistaken me for someone else. But no. Every camera, every eye, is locked on me like I’m prey in the open.

“Have you spoken with your husband since the scandal broke?”

The question slices through the noise.

My breath stutters. The smile I’d been clinging to evaporates.

I can’t move. Can’t think. Can’t breathe.

My heart is racing so fast I feel dizzy, like it’s trying to outrun whatever’s happening. A reporter lunges closer, mic outstretched, eyes hungry.

“Are you aware that all of your sponsors are dropping you?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Not even air. My hands are shaking now, and I realize I’ve gripped the strap of my carry-on so tight it’s cutting into my fingers.

The noise builds, overlapping, suffocating—voices barking accusations, cameras popping, lights blinding. It all melts together into a deafening static that presses in on my skull.

I don’t understand. I don’t even know what they’re talking about.

Then—suddenly—hands. Firm on my arm.

My agent. His voice low, sharp, urgent. “Move. Now.”

And then we’re barreling forward, fast. He drags me through the storm like a linebacker cutting a path through a sea of chaos. Cameras shove close, mics jab at me, voices scream things I can’t even process.

I stumble—trip over a foot—nearly go down, barely catch myself. My heart lodges in my throat.

My body’s moving, but my brain?

It’s still frozen back on that first question.

That one word.

Accusations.

None of it makes sense.

This can’t be real. This can’t be happening.

A car door swings open in front of us, and before I can process, I’m shoved inside. The door slams.

Silence.

Well… almost.

My ears are still ringing with leftover panic, my pulse thundering so loud it feels like the sound is coming from outside me, rattling the car itself.

I press both hands to my chest, as if I can physically hold myself together. As if sheer willpower can quiet the storm clawing through me. It doesn’t work.

I look to my agent. My throat refuses to form words, so I just… stare. Waiting. Begging for him to say something. Anything.

It’s nothing. A glitch. Some troll on social media.

Wrong Sydney.

A bad rumor that’ll be gone in an hour.

But his face—

It’s gray. Hollow. Like he’s just seen a ghost.

Like I’m the ghost.

Without speaking, he pulls out his phone. Taps. Hands it to me.

“You need to see this.”

My fingers tremble so violently I nearly drop it. I don’t want to look. I already know—somewhere deep in my gut—that whatever’s on that screen is going to tear my world apart.

And then it does.

A video. Grainy, dim, security footage. A woman who looks like me—same build, same hair—standing at some crowded after-party I’ve never set foot in. Surrounded by strangers.

My blood runs ice. My stomach plummets.

Then the footage cuts. A news anchor fills the screen. Crisp suit. Grave tone.

“Breaking News—shocking allegations against Olympic champion Sydney Devereaux.”

“Twenty-three victims have come forward, alleging they were given substances without consent and subjected to inappropriate behavior.”

“The beloved sprinter, once a role model for young girls everywhere, now faces the question: Olympic hero… or serial predator?”

And then—my name. Splashed across the bottom of the screen in bold, screaming letters:

SYDNEY DEVEREAUX -OLYMPIC HERO TURNED PREDATOR

It feels like a fist slams into my chest, stealing all the air from my lungs.

“No.” My voice cracks, fragile, breaking apart. “No, that’s not—I wasn’t—I didn’t—”

But the footage doesn’t stop. The screen keeps spitting out more. More supposed evidence. More twisted stories. Names. Dates. Places I’ve never been. Things I’ve never done.

And yet, they’re being handed to the world as if they belong to me.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t think.

The accusations—the lies—wrap around me, tighter and tighter, until it feels like I’m suffocating.

My vision blurs with tears, but through the haze, one truth cuts sharp and cruel:

The life I built.

The love I fought for.

It’s all unraveling.

My lungs seize as I think about Christian. He’s home. With the kids.

He’s probably already seen it—heard every word.

He knows… and I haven’t even had the chance to explain.

He has to know this isn’t me. He has to believe me. He has to.

My hands are shaking as I dig through my bag like a madwoman, finally dragging out my phone. The screen lights up—thirteen missed calls from Christian. Thirteen. My stomach lurches. I fumble across the screen, clumsy, desperate, until I land on his name. And then I hit call.

It rings once. Twice.

“Please,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “Please answer.”

A third time.

Each ring is a knife twisting deeper, each second another step into the nightmare. My mind runs wild, spiraling down a dozen worst-case scenarios.

What if he’s already gone?

What if he’s sitting in the dark, shattered, convinced the woman he trusted with his whole heart betrayed him?

Or… maybe he’s waiting. Hoping. Still willing to listen.

The car finally slows, easing into the driveway. Any other day, just seeing home would spark relief—excitement, peace, comfort all wrapped into one.

But now? My stomach knots so violently I nearly double over. Home doesn’t feel safe anymore. It feels like the cliff edge of something I’m not ready to face.

The front lawn is a war zone.

Reporters. News vans. Flashes. A wall of noise.

The moment the car stops, they surge forward, swarming like vultures.

“Sydney! Over here!”

“Are the allegations true?”

“Do you deny the claims?”

“Will you be making any statements?”

“Did you cheat on your husband during the Olympics?”

The door yanks open, and my agent is there, shielding me with his body, forcing a path through the mob. I keep my head down, my mouth shut. I don’t stop. I don’t breathe. I just run.

And then—finally—the door slams behind me.

Silence.

I press my back to the door, lungs burning, trying to breathe.

And then I see him.

Christian.

He’s sitting at the dining table, hands clasped together, face unreadable. The moment his eyes meet mine, everything inside me breaks.

“Christian…” My voice is shredded, trembling. I take a shaky step toward him. “Please. None of it’s true. I swear to you—I promise.”

For one endless, brutal second… he just looks at me.

No reaction. No emotion.

Just… stares.

And then—

He moves.

In a heartbeat, he’s on his feet. Crossing the room fast. Before I can even brace, his arms are around me—pulling me in, pulling me home.

It’s not just a hug. It’s everything.

It’s history and trust and every ounce of love we’ve fought to build, wrapping around me like armor against the world. He’s not just holding me. He’s holding everything.

And then he speaks. Three words that put air back into my lungs. Three words that stitch my soul together in the places it was coming apart.

Three words that send me crumbling into his chest, sobbing from the sheer relief of it all.

“I believe you.”