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💖😍one click to continue reading the uncensored version 👉Fake Dating My Ex's Hockey Star Brother

I woke up with my ex’s brother still buried inside me—and the bast@rd was smiling. “What the hell? Get out of me!” I punched him in the chest, but he just held me tighter against the mattress. “Shh. You’re the one who climbed on top of me last night, begging for it,” his thumb traced my lower lip. “And now you want to play the victim?” Before I could answer, the bedroom door shook with a violent bang. “KATY. OPEN THE FKING DOOR.” My ex’s roar made the walls shake. "I know you’re in there with him!" I froze. My heart was pounding against my ribs. Braydon didn’t even flinch. Instead, he grabbed my hips and thrvst into me again—so deep I had to bite my lip until it bled to keep from making a sound. “Let me go!” I hissed, struggling to get him off me. He flipped me over in one fluid motion, trapping me beneath his weight. “Where do you think you’re going, Peach? You wanted revenge, didn’t you? Well, let him hear exactly what you did with his brother.” Another blow. The wood creaked. “I’m going to kill you both!” Braydon let out a dark laugh against my ear. “Well, you’d better hold on tight.” He rammed into me again. Harder this time. On purpose. A moan escaped my throat before I could stop it. I should have been terrified. Humiliated. Instead, my body arched on its own, seeking the next thrust. He tightened his grip on my waist. “That’s good,” he murmured. “Let him hear.” --- Chapter 001 KATY’S POV “Hey, I’m heading over now. Can you bring out the books I left?” I press send and shove my phone into my jacket pocket as Bryan’s townhouse comes into view, my steps automatically quickening. I have Statistics in thirty minutes, and Mrs. Tompson would rather swallow a jean jacket than let me walk into her class without my textbook, the same textbook I managed to leave lying around in my boyfriend’s room. As I walk faster, I recheck my phone, half expecting a reply, but there’s nothing. Not even a typing bubble. For a moment, I wonder if he has already left, but it‘s unlikely. It’s only 9:30 in the morning, and Bryan never leaves his room early. One of the perks of being a baseball player is that he doesn’t have to treat academics like life or death the way I do. I reach his townhouse and take the stairs two at a time, my purse bouncing against my hip. The higher I climb, the more rushed my breathing feels, though it has less to do with the stairs and more to do with this creeping frustration that he still hasn’t texted back. By the time I get to the third floor, where his room is, I’m already picturing walking in and tossing a sarcastic comment about how hard it is to answer a simple text. My hand reaches for his doorknob when I hear his voice through the door. “Hurry up, my girlfriend will be here soon.” I freeze. “You need to leave.” Who is he talking to? The question barely forms before the door flies open and a girl rushes out, nearly colliding with me. My breath hitches. She gasps, her eyes wide with a mix of panic and shame. In the sliver of a second before she bolts, I take in her messy red hair, wrinkled shirt, and unbuttoned jeans. A sickening masculine scent, one I recognize very well, clings to her. My gaze snaps to Bryan, who is standing in the middle of the room in nothing but his boxers, his own chest bare, and his hair tousled. A cold, sharp shiver runs down my spine, stealing the air from my lungs. My knees go weak, and the knot in my stomach turns to a solid block of ice. Without a word, the girl tears past me, disappearing down the hallway. My fingers begin to tremble, and my heart hammers so hard it feels like it will burst through my ribs. I stumble back, a bitter taste rising in my throat. “Baby, wait.” Bryan’s voice follows me as he steps into the hallway. I spin around and run, determined to put as much distance as I can between us, my chest burning with anger. He catches me, his hands clamping around my wrist before I can escape, spinning me back toward him and blocking my path. "Baby, let's talk.” "Let go of me," I snap, my voice shaking. "Don't touch me!" I shove against his chest, but he doesn't budge. He tugs me toward his room, his grip tight. "It's better if we go inside. Everyone can hear us out here." Inside, I shove him away, my chest rising and falling with quick breaths. I want to demand answers, but I already know the truth. The evidence is everywhere: in the rumpled sheets, the scent of her perfume, and the desperate, guilty look in his eyes. He paces the room, running a hand through his hair before stopping and grabbing my shoulder. "I messed up, okay?" He drags a hand over his face. "It was a mistake.” My eyes twitch. “A mistake?” “Yeah, baby," he says, his eyes skittering away from mine. "Some of the guys came over last night. We drank too much. I got so shit-faced I… I thought she was you. I don't even remember half of it.” I blink, unable to process his words. My mind stumbles over them, each syllable making less sense than the last. Did he really just say that? Does he actually expect me to believe this pathetic lie? I stare at him, my mouth slightly open, waiting for him to take the words back. But he doesn't. He just holds my gaze, searching my face as if he's trying to see if I'm stupid enough to swallow his bucket of lies. “You… you thought she was me?” I choke out in anger. “Are you actually serious right now?” “Yes, baby, I'm serious. I didn't mean it. It was a mistake," he insists. "And honestly, she came on to me first. How was I supposed to resist when I was drunk? Come on, you know I love you.” A bitter laugh escapes my lips. "Cheating is one thing, Bryan," I snap, taking a step toward him, "but thinking I'm stupid enough to believe your lies? That's a whole other level.” “Katy, you’re overreacting,” he states, his voice growing colder. “Jasper and Hannah had the same kind of problems, and they worked it out. Why can’t you be more like her?” I feel heat flare through me. “Overreacting?” I yell. “Fourteen months, Bryan! Fourteen months of promises, and you’ve broken every single one! And you have the nerve to tell me I’m overreacting?!” He scoffs, his mask finally dropping. "Promises? You really want to bring that up?" I recoil. "What do you mean by that?" He crosses his arms and steps toward me. "You want to talk about promises? Fine. Let's talk about it." He jabs a finger in my face, his eyes darkening. "You promised your schedule would never affect us. How's that working out? Every damn day, you're busy. Debate, magazines, some lame club! You put everything else before me.” “That’s not—” I start, but he cuts me off. “I play sports, and I still make time for you!” he yells, and I flinch. “You know what? This is your fault!” He jabs my shoulder again. “This happened because of you, not me. You!” I step back, rage crawling up my spine. Never in a million years did I imagine that the person I had loved and trusted for a whole year could be like this—twisting the truth, blaming me, acting as if I were at fault. “You are a coward, Bryan.” I whisper, lifting my head to meet his eyes. “That’s what you are. Blaming me, twisting everything, and calling it my fault? I’m done.” I dash to his desk, sending papers and books tumbling to the floor as I hunt for my textbook. I need to get out of here before my anger takes over, before I do something I will regret. “You act like there’s someone better out there. There isn’t, and there won’t ever be.” He sneers from behind me. “Nobody else will ever make you feel alive the way I do.” I pause, staring up at him. He steps closer, his voice rising as he repeats his claim. “You were nobody before me, Katy. I made you popular. You walk into a room, and people know your name because of me. Bryan Cooper.” Something inside me snaps. I close the distance between us, breathing against his face. "You will never speak to me again," I hiss. "And mark my words, you will be replaced by someone hotter, smarter, and better than you could ever be. I yank the couple necklace he gave me off my neck and fling it at his feet. Without another word, I storm out with my textbook, tears burning my eyes. I managed not to cry in front of him, but as I run down the stairs, the dam finally burst. I collapse against the side of the building, clutching my chest as sobs tear out of me. It feels like someone has ripped my heart away and shredded it into a million pieces. Our memories and moments fill my mind, stabbing me over and over. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I fumble to answer it, my hands shaking. “Katy?”My brother’s voice floats through. “Yeah?” I sniffle, wiping my tears. “Don’t forget you promised to tutor Braydon after class today,” he says, sounding annoyed. “He’s already bugging me.” I bite my lip, wanting to tell him I can’t right now, not in this state, but I had promised to help his friend. I exhale, pushing back the lump in my throat, and slowly rise to my feet. “Okay,” I manage to say. Chapter 002 BRAYDON’S POV “Asshole!” I shout, the words ripping from my throat as some guy cuts me off. I slam my hand against the steering wheel, throwing a glare in the rearview mirror, even though I know he can’t see me. Perfect. Just perfect. I’m particularly in a bad mood today. Hell, I’ve been in a bad mood all week. Nothing seems to go right, and every little thing is just… another straw on the camel’s back. And it’s all because my old man’s ultimatum keeps gnawing at me. “Pass all your courses, or forget about hockey.” His voice drills into my skull. Simple, right? Like I could just flip a switch and make it happen. I can rock Cs in most of my courses, well, except in Marketing Management and Business Ethics. If I fail those, there’s no graduation, no hockey, and worse, Bryan gets his hands on my mom’s company. That’s exactly what he and his mother have been scheming for, and I’ll be damned if I let them take what my mom built with her own sweat and blood. The thought gnaws at me, making me want to punch something, and I can’t hold in the audible groan that escapes my throat. I pull into my apartment lot and kill the engine. For a moment, I sit there, gripping the wheel and staring at myself in the rearview mirror. “You got this,” I tell myself. I can do it. Lucky for me, Justin’s kid sister, Katy, is a genius. All I need is a few sessions with her, I’ll keep my grades, and hockey stays mine. That’s the plan, the smart plan. But right now, I need something to distract me before I lose it. I nod, shove the door open, and head for my building. I slow as I near my door, spotting someone leaning against the frame. Her head lifts, eyes locking with mine, and a smirk curls her lips. Stacy. Exactly the distraction I ordered. I’d shot her a text twenty minutes ago, but didn’t think she’d make it so quickly. Guess not. She’s in nothing but a jacket and lacy tights. And when a girl waits at your door dressed like that, you know damn well there’s nothing underneath. “Took you long enough.” She shoots me a sexy smile that says I’m about to forget all about my bad day. My gaze drags over her as I slip the key into the lock. “Is that all for me?” Her eyes glitter. “Sure, big guy.” I’ve barely stepped inside before her manicured fingers trail across my chest. “How long has it been?” she purrs. “A long time,” I answer. Her smile widens as she shrugs out of her jacket, letting it pool on the floor. She gets on her knees and crooks a finger at me. "Come here.” I waste no time closing the distance between us. The world outside the door, the frustrations of the day, my father's ultimatum, my grades, all fade into a distant hum. She takes the waistband of my jeans, her fingers teasing the button open before tugging at my zipper. A second later, my cock springs free, a release I've been craving all day, and lands in her waiting hand. The feel of her fingers wrapping around me pulls a low groan from my throat. “Go on, suck it,” I rumble. On my command, she opens her mouth and wraps her lips around my length. **************��Two hours later, Stacy is snuggled up beside me, her head resting on my chest. She traces meaningless lines across my skin, a gesture of intimacy, but I don’t like the cuddly stuff. It makes me feel trapped. I slowly shift, dislodging her head, and search for my shorts on the floor. “You..” “I missed you,” she blurts, cutting me off. I spin, caught off guard for half a second before I reel it back in. The first thought that comes to mind is: Did she forget the rules? We first hooked up three months ago, and I was crystal clear about my boundaries.Things were easy because she was fine with a no-strings-attached arrangement. But now, I'm not so sure. It seems she's going to be like all the others, the ones who start wanting more after a few times. “I’ve been busy,” I mutter, dragging on my shorts. I can’t say I missed her, too, because that’ll only mess things up and lead her on. But the truth that she hadn't crossed my mind once since we last hooked up is too cold to say aloud. “I’m exhausted. Got morning practice.” I rub the back of my neck, hoping she takes the hint and leaves. But that’s far from what she has in my mind. “Are you really kicking me out minutes after we just—” her voice sharpens, “after we just had sex?” “Stacy, listen…” “Seriously, is this it? Is this all I am to you? We just hook up and that’s all?” She looks visibly upset now. “I thought we were clear about this," I reply, my voice firm. "From the very beginning, I told you I'm not looking for anything serious. No strings attached, just this.” Her fingers tremble as she snatches her jacket off the floor. "Well, I don't want to be your whenever-you-want girl anymore. I want to be your girlfriend." “You know that’s not happening.” I respond flatly. “But why?” She demands. "I don't have to explain myself and don’t act like I tricked you. You knew the deal from day one,” I tilt my head at the door. “If casual wasn’t your thing, you shouldn’t have agreed. Now do us both a favor and leave.” Her expression immediately softens, her eyes filling with a plea as she realizes I'm serious. "Big guy..." she croaks, her voice breaking. "I just… I just really like you. Can't you—" She lifts a hand to touch me, and I take a sharp step back. Her hand is left hanging in the air, and her eyes turn cold instantly again. The vulnerability is gone, replaced by a cutting anger. "Why exactly can't I be your girlfriend?" she asks, her voice hard. "What is it? Do you have a checklist I don’t measure up to?” I don't answer. I turn and stride out of the bedroom. She follows, her shoes thudding on the hardwood floor, but I ignore her. I pass the dining table, head straight for the fridge, and crack open a beer. She stops short, the anger in her body suddenly replaced with bewildered hurt. "So that's it? You're just going to grab a beer? You don't even care, do you?" I take a slow sip, not looking at her. "I thought we were clear. I don't." "I can be a good girlfriend!" she pleads, her voice rising. "I'm a great girlfriend. Just give me a chance." I shake my head. "I don't need a girlfriend." The words hang in the air for a moment before something in her breaks. She lets out a frustrated cry and yells, "Screw you!" She lunges for the front door, yanking it open. She dashes out and almost collides with a girl coming down the hall, a stack of books in her arms. The girl sidesteps to avoid being hit. It's Katy. Her tired gaze lands on Stacy, then drifts to me, her expression unreadable. Stacy gives her a slow once-over, then whips back to me with a sneer. “Really? I thought you had standards!” My mouth opens, ready to shut her down, but Katy beats me to it. “Relax. I’m not here to hook up with him. Unlike you, I actually have a purpose.” Both of us freeze. My brows lift, caught off guard. Stacy’s smirk falters, and for a split second, she looks like she’s been slapped. Chapter 003 KATY’S POV The redhead glares at me, her chest rising and falling like she’s trying to push the anger out in measured breaths. I wait for a retort, but she spares me only a cutting look, huffs at Braydon in dismissal, and storms off, muttering cusses to herself. I stare after her, gritting my teeth as irritation prickles my skin. What’s it with me and redheads today? First, with Bryan in the morning, and now, his brother. It seems they both have a type. A low chuckle from the doorway yanks my attention back. Braydon leans casually against the frame, an infuriating smirk tugging at his lips. His abs are on full display, golden against the light, every line impossible to ignore. “Didn’t think you had that in you, Peach.” I lift an eyebrow, a mix of annoyance and curiosity bubbling up inside me. "Peach?" He pushes off the door and takes a step closer, his hand reaching toward me. I recoil slightly, a shiver running down my spine despite myself, and his grin only widens. “Relax,” he says, tilting his head toward my chest. I glance down and there it is: a peach, drawn smack in the center of my shirt. Heat rises to my cheeks, and I can’t help but roll my eyes, letting out an amused scoff. I bulldoze past him into his living area. “Put on a shirt.” “Why?” His voice hums with amusement, even though I refuse to look at him. “Getting a little distracted by the view?” I spin around. “Ever heard of the word decency?” I snap. “It’s spelled—” “Hey, I can spell that. What do you take me for?” he cuts in, feigning annoyance, which somehow makes it even more irritating. He shuts the door and strolls over to the eat-in counter. A can of beer sits there, and before my eyes, he tilts it back and gulps down the entire thing in one smooth motion. “Is that alcohol?” I ask, fists clenching at my sides. He shoots me a strange look, eyes flicking to the now-squashed can in his hand. “It’s beer… so yes, I’m pretty sure it’s alcohol.” He tilts his head, his smirk creeping back. “Aren’t you supposed to be the smarter one?” Anger bubbles inside me. Did Justin not tell him I’m coming over? But no, Justin called me this morning to remind me. So, Braydon knows I’m here to tutor, not watch him get drunk. “You’re drinking on a night I’m supposed to tutor you?” I demand, my voice tight. He sighs dramatically and tosses the can in the trash. “Don’t be so peachy, Peach,” he says, his voice teasing. “It’s just one can and it’s not enough to knock me out. Besides… we can just get to know each other today. Justin definitely didn’t mention you’ve grown into a pretty woman.” I feel irritation crawl up my spine, and my lips twitch. My eyes dart to the door, tempted to leave, but then I remember Justin’s pleading and the one thousand dollars he promised for my new MacBook. I fix him with a death glare. “First of all, don’t call me Peach again. Second, have you considered that the reason you’re flunking your courses is that you flirt too much, and let’s not forget your unhealthy obsession with hockey? If you actually stop thinking about ways to flirt with me, maybe we can get something done tonight. But if you don’t, I’ll be more than happy to waste your time and watch you fail.” “Do you have friends?” he throws at me casually, catching me off guard. “Or have they all ghosted you because all you do is read and forget to socialize?” His words sting, bringing back the memory of what Bryan said to me this morning, but I swallow the hurt. “You must be so good at socializing that you forget other things matter.” I lift my book. “Oh, things like graduating from college.” His smirk widens, and I can see he’s taking this as a challenge. Is my insistence… kind of a kink for him? “Now, where’s your room? Let’s get started,” I add, keeping my voice calm. He leads the way to his room, and I follow, my eyes scanning the space as I enter. Posters of the Chicago Blackhawks cover the walls, along with a few other players I recognize from Justin’s room. Surprisingly, it’s cleaner than I expected, until my gaze lands on his bed. Bile rises in my throat. The sheets are scattered, and two empty condom wrappers lie on the floor. I bolt out, clutching my books, heat flooding my face. He follows, a look of amused surprise on his face, but I don’t slow down. “We’ll just read here,” I say, refusing to meet his eyes. I drop my books on the table, my hand aching from carrying them too long. Braydon prowls closer, shrinking the air between us “Why’d you run like that?” He asks. “Can’t handle being in the same room with me, Peach?” That damn nickname again. My patience frays. “You should clean up your room after sex, especially if you’ve got company. It’s called decency. Maybe you’ve heard of it, though clearly, you haven’t.” His fingers suddenly tilt my jaw, forcing my eyes to his. “Are you sure that’s the only reason? You know, I can make time for you.” That’s it. I’ve had enough. Heat floods my chest as I snatch my books off the table and storm toward the door. “Find someone else!” I yell. He catches my arm, trying to stop me, but I yank hard against his grip. I will not sit through two hours of his shameless flirting, not today. Not after the day I’ve had. “Hey, I’m sorry, okay?” Braydon’s voice softens as he pleads. “Get your hands off me.” I twist, trying to shake him loose. “I’ll behave, alright?” he rushes out. “I’ll put on a shirt, stop calling you Peach, never say another word you don’t like. Just, please, tutor me. I’m desperate.” I whirl around, ready to snap that he doesn’t act desperate enough, when my pocket starts buzzing nonstop. With a huff, I yank my phone out, half-expecting one of my study group members. But no, it’s Bryan. My stomach knots as I click the notification. Instead of apologies like I imagined for a second, my screen is filled with vile messages from him. My throat burns as my eyes lock on one message that makes the rest blur away. ~~BRYAN: Return my baseball jacket. My new girl wants it.~~ Everything else fades as hot anger sears through me. I read the line twice, but the words don’t change. He wants me to return his baseball jacket? And not just that, he already has a new girl, less than twelve hours after we broke up. My jaw clenches so tight it aches. He’s doing this to rile me up, and goddamn, it’s working. If I don’t hit back, he wins. The memory of him sneering that I’d never find someone better than him scorches me deeply. “Hey…” A tap on my shoulder jolts me, and Braydon’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts. “Did you hear a word I said? I said I’ll do anything you want. Anything.” My head jerks toward him, and it takes a moment to recollect myself, his last word lingering in my mind. Anything you want. The words replay like a chant, and suddenly my mind is crawling with ideas that shouldn’t be there. My gaze rakes down his frame and back up, and he catches it, brows pulling together in confusion. I shouldn’t even be thinking about it, but the thought is so damn tempting. Braydon Cooper, the campus golden boy and star forward of the hockey team. He’s the guy girls would do anything to be seen with, and guys hate him because he can take their girlfriends with a smile. He might be a player, but everyone knows he’s picky. Ruthlessly picky. So much so that girls brag if they even make it into his bed. Just being seen with him is enough to boost your social status overnight. You get invitations to events just because you’ve caught the eye of Braydon Cooper. And right now, he’s standing in front of me, saying anything I want. He’s perfect for my revenge plan. Not just because of who he is, but because he’s Bryan’s brother. What better way to grind Bryan’s inflated ego to dust than to show him his so-called replaceable ex is on the arm of his hotter and better brother? I turn to face Braydon fully, heat prickling under my skin. “You’ll do anything?” I ask, watching him closely. He studies me, uncertainty flickering in his eyes for the first time since I walked in. Still, he nods. “Yeah.” I take a slow breath, steadying the heat in my voice. “Then here’s the deal. I’ll tutor you, and not just enough for you to pass. You’ll ace your classes, every single one of them, with at least a B. That’s my part.” He narrows his eyes, waiting. “And yours?” “In return,” I say, “you’ll use your charm, your connections, your golden-boy reputation to pursue me publicly. We’ll build a high-profile relationship and everyone will see us.” Chapter 004 KATY’S POV “What?” Braydon stares at me like I’ve just sprouted two heads. “I said that—” “Yeah, I got you.” He cuts in, stepping closer as if to read my face better. “You’re asking me to play boyfriend?” I lick my lips before answering, my pulse hammering. “Yes.” He scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. “Sorry to disappoint you, Peach, but dating isn’t my thing. Anything but that.” The sting hurts more than I expected, disappointment slicing through me. I exhale slowly, biting my lip. I’ve heard his no-dating rule before, but dismissed it as just another line to make himself more desirable. But now… the way he shuts me down makes me wonder if he’s actually serious enough to walk away from an offer like this. I clear my throat, forcing my voice to stay steady. “Think about it. Midterms are in four weeks, and it’s a major part of our final grade. If you want to pass, you need time with me, and that’s a month to prepare. This is a win-win deal.” “Uh-uh.” He flicks his hand. “I’ll pass. There has to be something else you want. I mean…” His smirk resurfaces. “I didn’t take you for one of my fangirls.” I roll my eyes, glaring at him. “I’m not interested in you. And I’ve never harbored some secret crush on you.” “Really?” He cuts in, his tone edged with disbelief. “So why? I mean… aren’t you still with Bryan or something?” “You should’ve remembered that before flirting with me,” I snap back. My chest heaves once, and I force myself to calm. It takes everything in me to push out the words. “Bryan and I broke up.” His face doesn’t change, not even a hint of sympathy. He also doesn’t look like he’s about to say an empty sorry to hear that. Instead, he cocks an eyebrow. “So what? Trying to use me as your rebound?” The urge to scream at him burns in my throat, but I bite it back. I’m negotiating, and I need this deal. Swallowing hard feels like impaling myself as I admit the truth. “He cheated on me.” That gets him. His expression shifts, the teasing dropping from his face. His eyes darken, a flash of anger sparking there. “That son of a bitch.” “It’s fine,” I choke out, though it’s not. “I just… I want to prove him wrong. He said I can’t find someone better than him. But—” I shrug, forcing the resignation into my voice. “I guess your rule is your rule.” I turn, feigning surrender, pretending to walk away even though part of me is begging for him to stop me. “Wait!” His voice rings out just as my hand grazes the door. My lips twitch into a smile, but I force it down, schooling my face into something neutral as I turn back to him. Braydon drags a hand through his hair, and I know he’s thinking. And honestly, I don’t blame him. I already know how explosive it’ll be once the news spreads. Justin will definitely flip out, and everyone will have their eyes glued to my life like it’s their favorite show. Frankly, the only good thing to come out of this is that Bryan will absolutely lose his shit. “You’ll really help me ace my courses?” he finally asks, his gaze locking with mine. I nod. “Yeah. But that depends on how convincing you are as my boyfriend.” His brow furrows. “What does that even mean?” “It means people have to believe we’re dating,” I say evenly. A smirk tugs at his lips. “That’s gonna be a hard sell, considering my track record.” I suck in a breath, my patience thinning. “Do you really want to graduate, or not?” He nods his head, shooting me a mock glare. “You’re so annoying.” “Then do we have a deal?” I press, refusing to back down. He stays quiet, the silence stretching long enough for me to second-guess everything. Then he sighs. “We’ve got a deal.” I almost squeal, but I bite it back hard. He actually agreed. I can’t believe I pulled this off. And suddenly, the weight of it sinks in…this is huge. In the history of Cadston College, I’m his first girlfriend. First. Which makes it not just a win, but a direct slap in Bryan’s face. Another point on the scoreboard for me. “Thank you,” I say, setting my books down before my hands can shake. “I hope you’ll be a great girlfriend,” he replies smoothly, that tone of mischief back in his voice. “Because I’ll give this my all. Quick notice though, I’m a handsy guy.” His teasing is back, but this time, when our eyes lock, I can’t fire back like I usually do. The air shifts between us, heavy and charged. My throat tightens, and I look away, scratching at my arm like that can distract me. It doesn’t. If anything, it only makes me more aware of how close he is. “Ummm…let’s talk about the rules.” I manage to say. “What rules?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer as his hand lands on my shoulder, tugging me a little closer. I go stiff instantly, every nerve locking up. His frown deepens. “You can’t freeze up when I touch you if we’re going to sell this dating thing.” A spark of alarm shoots through me. “And why would you even touch me?” He tilts his head, one brow arching. “Because, Peach, I’m supposed to be your boyfriend.” My throat tightens. “Can’t you convince people without touching me?” I counter, heat crawling up my neck. “We can…hold hands sometimes.” “Are you really that shy?” His lips twitch. “What, was your relationship with Bryan PG-12 or something?” “No,” I snap before I can stop myself. My voice falters, then steadies again as I lift my chin. “We had sex plenty of times. And yeah, there was PDA. Difference is, he was actually my boyfriend.” He steps closer, and with a maddening slowness, pushes a strand of hair behind my ear. My skin burns at the contact. “We just made a deal, Peach,” he says softly. “And the way I see it, that makes you my girlfriend now. If we’re gonna convince Bryan, we don’t get to half-ass it. He can smell bullshit a mile away so we do what real couples do.” The room feels like it’s closing in, the air too thick, my heartbeat too loud. As much as I hate to admit it, he’s right. If I want Bryan to choke on this, I have to play the part. I nod, forcing the words out. “Maybe…we should practice holding hands and some physical stuff. Just to make it natural.” He almost laughs but reins it in, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Practice, huh? Okay, Peach. Let’s practice.” He guides me stiffly to the couch and sits beside me. Then he extends his hand, and my throat dries. Slowly, I reach out and take it. The moment our skin touches, a zap of electricity shoots through me, and I yank my hand back. He feels it too, and I can tell because he doesn’t tease me. Instead, he licks his lips. “Let’s try again. Extend your hand.” I swallow, shove my hand forward, and he takes it. His fingers weave through mine, and my heart slams against my ribs, so loud it feels impossible he can’t hear it. His gaze lingers on me as he strokes the back of my hand with his thumb, and shivers ripple down my spine. Why does something as simple as holding his hand make me feel this way? “See?” he murmurs. “It’s not that hard.” I nod quickly, pretending the heat in my belly isn’t getting worse with every second. He shifts closer, his shoulder brushing mine, and his scent floods my senses. “Now,” he says, his voice dropping, “next on the list of physical contact is kissing.” Chapter 005 KATY’S POV I rip my hand away, glaring at him, my pulse thundering in my ears. “Are you out of your mind?” He snorts. “Do you, or do you not, want Bryan to believe we’re dating?” My jaw drops in outrage. “What does that have to do with my lips?” He shakes his head like I’m hopeless. “What do you think relationships are? Study groups? Business meetings?” He leans closer, and I instinctively lean back, my heart racing. “Men are physical beings and I’m the most physical of all. Bryan knows that. If he notices I’m not all over you, we’ve got a problem. And we don’t want problems, do we?” I bite my lip and look away, my brain spiraling. Maybe I should find someone else for this fake-dating nonsense, because his suggestions are ridiculous. He makes me react in ways I don’t understand, and now I’m actually considering kissing him. Him, of all people. No. I cross my arms and face him. “This isn’t a game. It’s fake dating, and I am not kissing you.” He leans back, unfazed. “Okay, then what do you suggest we do when we’re out? Bars, my hockey games…” I blink. “Wait, bars? I have to go with you to bars? Why?” He lifts a brow like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Because that’s what girlfriends do.” Oh, this is already too much. The thought of hanging out with his friends, who I’m sure are just as loud and cocky as he is, makes my stomach turn. “Trust me, Peach,” he says with that maddening grin, “if you show up on my arm at a bar, Bryan will lose his mind. You’ve got to do things with me you’d never do with him, or he’ll never buy it.” I narrow my eyes. “And what exactly happens at this bar?” “We have fun, grab a couple drinks, and I introduce you as my girlfriend…” His grin widens. “Oh, and heads up? Half the girls there will probably want to kill you.” I roll my eyes, though I can’t deny it makes sense. Going out with him and stepping into his world will convince anyone we’re together. Bryan especially. He knows I hate loud places, so if he hears I went to a bar with Braydon, he’ll lose it. “Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll go.” “And at least one home game,” he adds quickly. I sigh. “That too.” “And you’ll wear my jacket around campus.” I give him a tight nod. “But no kissing. If you want that, call the redhead.” His lips curve. “Why don’t you want to kiss me? Scared you’re bad at it?” I scowl. “I’m a great kisser!” “Yeah?” He leans in, close enough for my breath to catch. My heart skips, heat curling low in my stomach. “Then prove it.” “Why do I have to prove anything to you?” I snap, though my palms are slick with sweat. “I know I’m a good kisser. End of story.” His tilts his head. “I see fear in your eyes. Don’t worry, I get it.” “Wh—” The sound sputters out of me. He’s unbelievable. “Why would I be scared to kiss you?” He shakes his head slowly, like he’s humoring me. “A lot of people freeze up when—” “Fine!” The word rips out of me before I can stop it. “Let’s do it.” For a second, his eyes widen, shock flickering there before it melts into a smile. His green eyes darken, heat sparking in them or maybe it’s just me burning up. My hands tremble against my thighs, and my whole body feels like it’s caught fire. This cannot be happening. Except it is, because he leans in and closes the gap between us. Our knees brush, and it feels like sparks shooting through me. My hand lifts almost on its own, my fingers brushing his cheek and my thumb traces along his jawline. His eyes catch the light, and I swear I can see the rapid flutter of his pulse in his throat. Slowly, I tilt forward until my lips press against his. The instant they touch, heat floods through me, racing from my mouth down the length of my body. My skin prickles, every nerve coming alive with a low pull in my stomach that I can’t control. He tastes faintly of beer as his tongue slides in my mouth, but somehow it’s addictive, like I’ve never tasted it before. For a moment, I forget everything: where we are, why we’re doing this, and even who I’m with. All I feel is heat rolling through me. And then reality slams back. I’m kissing Braydon. The last person I should ever be kissing. Panic claws at my chest, and I rip myself away, breathless. My face burns hot, my chest rising and falling too fast. From the corner of my eye, I catch him licking his lips, and I tighten my thighs. I should say something smart, but my throat is dry, and I don’t trust my voice not to give me away. My palms are damp, so I rub them against my jeans, praying he won’t point out how rattled I am. “Well,” he drawls at last, his eyes locked on me, “I guess we have chemistry. We’ve got nothing to worry about.” I force myself to look at him, but the heat in his gaze is too much, and I turn away almost instantly. “Is that so?” I laugh nervously, rubbing my arms. “Then I guess we’re done here.” I spring to my feet, gathering my things, but before I can escape, his hand closes around my wrist. My breath catches as I glance down at him. “There’s one more thing,” he says. “Wh…what?” My voice trips over itself. “The way you look at me.” I’m sure my chin is red now because I feel all the blood in my body rush to my face. How do I look at him? How? “What do you mean?” I manage to ask, barely above a whisper. “You need to look at me like you’re in love,” he says. Relief flickers through me when I realize he’s still talking about our act, not me. But then his fingers lift, tilting my chin toward him, and my throat goes dry. My gaze drops to his lips, and panic surges. “I think I’m good,” I blurt, stumbling back. Clutching my books to my chest, I make for the door before I can completely fall apart. Chapter 006 KATY’S POV I slip into the lecture hall and sink into my usual seat, letting my bag drop beside me. My gaze flicks around the room before I can stop myself, and I scan the faces of everyone present. Of course, I already know Braydon’s schedule, so I know he shouldn’t be here. Still, I only exhale once I’m certain. It’s ironic, really. He’s supposed to be my fake boyfriend, and yet here I am, relieved he isn’t anywhere near me. And today is supposed to be our first day for everything we planned but my stomach is fluttering with nerves. The truth is that after last night, I need space, breathing room, and time to convince myself I’m not making a mistake by trusting him. I usually pride myself on making good choices. Safe ones. But with him, all my carefully built walls crumble, and wisdom evaporates. That’s how I end up doing things like kissing him like I want it and like I’m not supposed to remember it’s fake. Worse, I didn’t just kiss him, I melted and moaned into his mouth as if I couldn’t help myself. The memory sends a shiver racing down my spine, and I shift in my seat, wishing I could shake the feeling away. “Miss me?” a familiar voice teases in my ear. I jump, startled, before turning. Allie slides into the chair beside me, her smile bright and easy. Right on cue, our professor walks to the podium, but I barely notice him because I’m too busy staring at my best friend. “I thought you weren’t coming back until tomorrow,” I whisper, grinning as relief warms my chest. God, it feels good to see her. Allie isn’t just my roommate, she’s my anchor, and my sister in every way that matters. She’s been gone for days, celebrating her anniversary with her boyfriend, and I hadn’t realized how much I missed her until now. “So basically, you didn’t miss me,” she says, pulling out her notebook, her eyes glinting with mischief. “I missed you so much my entire life collapsed without you,” I whisper dramatically. She smothers a laugh. “Or maybe you were just having too much fun without me.” If only she knew. Fun is the last word I’d use for all the mess that happened. And I know she’s going to freak out when I tell her because I have to tell her. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it while she was away because I didn’t want to ruin her week. But now that she’s back? There’s no hiding and there’s too much to unpack. “I’ll tell you everything after class,” I whisper, flipping open my notebook. Her pen pauses midair, and she leans closer, her brows raised. “Now I’m anxious.” “After class,” I whisper back, forcing my attention to the podium. The professor’s voice drones on, but the words might as well be static. My heart is already racing, my palms damp against the notebook. Just the thought of telling Allie what happened makes me feel nauseous. She has the kind of relationship people dream about with a steady, loving boyfriend. Meanwhile, mine crashed and burned in the ugliest way possible. The contrast feels like holding up my mess beside her perfection, and part of me wants to swallow it down and never say a word. But I know I can’t. She’s my best friend. And if there’s anyone I can break in front of, it’s her. When the lecture finally ends, Allie wastes no time. She grabs my wrist and practically drags me outside, weaving through the crowd until we find a quiet corner. Her eyes are already wide, her whole body buzzing like she might explode if I make her wait a second longer. “Okay,” she says, hands on her hips. “Tell. Me. Everything.” I let out a shaky laugh, but it dies in my throat. “You think it’s some funny, messy story,” I murmur, staring down at my shoes. “But it’s not.” Her teasing smile slips slightly. “Then start wherever you can.” So I do. I tell Allie everything, starting with catching Bryan cheating and his mockery afterward, which pushed me into a fake relationship with Braydon. The words come out shakier than I expect, and by the time I finish, I feel wrung out. Allie just stares at me, her eyes so wide it almost makes me laugh if it didn’t hurt so much. For a long moment, she doesn’t say a word. Then she exhales slowly and pulls me straight into her arms. I sink into her hug, holding on tightly because God, I needed this. I haven’t even told Justin yet, so she’s only the second person to know, and somehow that makes me feel relieved. When she finally pulls back, her hands stay firm on my arms as she searches my face. “Are you okay?” she asks quietly. I nod, a small, self-conscious laugh escaping. “Yeah. I mean, I cried last night… and then cringed myself into secondhand embarrassment over my own actions with Braydon.” “I’m going to kill Bryan when I see him,” she grinds out. “How could he do that, and who does he even think he is?” I give a small shrug. “Guess you never really know someone, do you?” For a moment, the noise of the hallway swallows us before Allie leans closer until her shoulder brushes mine. “Okay, but…” she lowers her voice, her eyes practically gleaming, “are you one hundred percent serious about Braydon? Because if you are…” She doesn’t finish the sentence, but her grin is trying to break through. I narrow my eyes at her. “Don’t you dare get excited.” But it’s too late because the sparkle in her gaze gives her away. She’s always been obsessed with Braydon and thinks he’s hotter than every lead in her comic books combined. Back in freshman year, she even ran his fan page before she started dating and reluctantly passed it on like she was handing over a crown. The way her eyes shine now, I can tell she’s trying to hide how thrilled she is at the drama. With a sigh, I dig out my phone and thrust it into her hands. “Here. Proof.” Her jaw drops the second she sees his name light up my screen. I watch her scan the texts he sent me last night while I was curled up on my bed, crying over everything, and also trying to convince myself our fake relationship wasn’t a bad idea because of the kiss. BRAYDON: Send me your schedule, Peach. ME: Don’t call me Peach. BRAYDON: Okay, send me your schedule, Princess. Allie slaps a hand over her mouth, her eyes bouncing between my screen and my face. “Oh my God. You’re not joking.” “Why would I joke about that?” I mutter, trying not to laugh. “Does Justin know about this?” she presses. I shake my head, sighing. “No. And I don’t even know how to tell him.” She grins wickedly. “Girl, you are treading dangerous waters… but I fully support this.” I open my mouth to respond when a new notification flashes across my screen. “It’s Braydon,” Allie squeaks, clutching my arm. “Shhh,” I hiss, leaning down to read it. BRAYDON: Your schedule says library time at 12 p.m. Still on, Princess? I roll my eyes at his text. First it was Peach, now it’s Princess. What’s next, Queen of the Universe? I turn to complain, but Allie is practically glowing, her face lit up like Christmas as she stares at my phone. “Really?” I scoff. “You have a boyfriend and you’re drooling over another guy.” She shakes her head. “I hate to be this kind of best friend, but you’re literally texting Braydon. Braydon!” She repeats it like she wants it to get inside my head. “Do you know what that is?” I stare down at my phone. It’s not like he’s Justin Bieber or something. “He’s a normal guy and my brother’s friend,” I say. She slaps her forehead. “Do you realize you’re his first girlfriend ever, and he doesn’t do relationships?” I’m about to laugh her off when a sight snatches the sound out of my mouth. My chest tightens as my gaze snags on a figure across the quad, and my body feels like it’s being pricked with thorns as I stare. Allie follows my gaze to Bryan, who’s walking slowly a few meters away with his arm wrapped around a girl’s shoulder. A girl, different from the redhead he was with yesterday. I force my gaze away and swallow, hoping it soothes the heat rising inside me, but it doesn’t. It hurts, and I’m scared to admit how much it does. Chapter 007 KATY’S POV The library is unusually packed today as if people know what’s coming. Every table is filled with groups cramming for midterms, laptops glowing, and coffee cups balanced on notebooks. I try to keep my eyes on the book in front of me, but the words blur together as I read the same line three times. My body also feels restless because any moment now, Braydon will walk in, and I’m not sure if I’m ready for the attention that will follow. After seeing Bryan with that girl, though, every hesitation I had about this arrangement with Braydon vanished. He didn’t just cheat, but also made a spectacle out of it. And as if doing that wasn’t enough, he had to parade someone else around campus like a trophy. But if he wants to go low, then fine. I’ll go lower. All the way down. I glance down at my wristwatch, trying to calm the pounding in my chest. “Where is—” “It’s Braydon Cooper.” Someone at the next table half-whispers, and squeals at the same time. My head lifts on instinct, and there he is, walking down the row of tables like he owns the place. Even in a library full of stressed-out students, he’s impossible to miss. Conversations dip, pages stop turning, and a few phones tilt in his direction as he heads straight for my table. He stops in front of me, his green eyes locking on mine. “Hey, Peach.” “You’re here,” I whisper, tearing my gaze away before anyone can see the heat creeping into my cheeks. He pulls out a chair and drops into the seat beside me, earning a chorus of gasps from nearby tables. I can’t tell if people are shocked to see him in the library because let’s be real, this is probably his first time here, or if it’s because he chose to sit with me. Either way, the attention is loud, and it’s exactly what we planned. “Reading without me?” he teases, leaning closer and his fingers brush a strand of hair behind my ear like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I feel so hurt.” I lick my lips, trying to keep my cool. He told me from the start he’s a handsy guy, and I agreed I’d play along. So yeah, I’ll be the girl who acts unbothered by the campus heartthrob touching her in the middle of the library, even if my pulse clearly didn’t get the memo. “We both know you hate reading,” I tell him, forcing a smile that feels way too charming. “And please don’t touch me out of nowhere. Give me a heads-up.” He leans in closer, and I almost jerk back but catch myself just in time. “I thought we went through this.” He whispers, then pulls out a can of Coke from his pocket, setting it in front of me. “I didn’t know if you preferred coffee or soda.” The gesture is simple, but it sends the room into overdrive. Whispers ripple from the aisles, and I catch people peeking from behind the shelves, pretending to browse while very obviously staring. Seriously? What’s their deal? Yeah, Braydon’s a star on the hockey team and will probably go pro after college, but they’re acting like he’s already a celebrity or in the NHL. Well… I shouldn’t complain. The faster the news reaches Bryan, the better. “Thanks, Bray,” I manage, the word strangling me on its way out. He cringes. “Bray? That’s the best you’ve got?” I bite my lip, mortified. What am I even supposed to call him? Bryan and I never did nicknames, and we were on a first-name or baby basis. And there is no universe where I’m calling Braydon baby. He sighs, clearly over my struggle, then grabs my wrist and tugs me to my feet. Before I can react, he’s pulling me between two shelves into a quiet corner, away from all the eyes burning holes into us. “Are you really this stiff?” he asks, caging me in against the wall. “Bray? Really?” I glance around, making sure no one’s watching, before muttering, “I don’t know what I’m supposed to call you. Bray’s not that bad.” He scoffs. “Out of thousands of options, you go with Bray? Try something better. Maybe… Big guy.” “Big guy?” I arch a brow. He nods smugly, gesturing to himself like the answer is obvious. My eyes betray me, running over him before I can stop. And fine, he’s not wrong. He’s all man, from the broad chest stretching his shirt to the long legs and fingers that make him seem even bigger in the cramped space. I snap myself out of it before my gaze drifts lower, folding my arms across my chest to put some distance between us. Not that it helps because he’s close enough that one wrong move and we’ll be pressed together. “I’m not calling you Big Guy,” I tell him flatly. “But I’ll come up with something… nicer.” “And it has to be before Zach’s party,” he shoots back. “Zach’s party?” I narrow my eyes. “Who the hell is Zach, and why are you suddenly bringing him into this?” I can tell where this is heading, and yeah, I hate it already. “Because we’re going to that party,” he says. I shake my head. “Nope, that’s not happening. We agreed on bars and one home game. That’s it. Nothing about frat houses, or parties.” “Zach’s our goalie,” he says, like that alone should settle the argument. “And there’s no way I’m missing his birthday bash.” “Then go alone.” He smirks, leaning closer. “That’d be weird… when I’ve got a hot girlfriend I’m supposed to show off.” My heart does that annoying thump-thump thing, but it’s not nearly enough to change my mind. Loud parties are the last place I want to be. They drag up memories I’ve spent years trying to bury, and a part of me I don’t let anyone near. Agreeing to bars was already pushing it, but this? This is a hard no. “I’m not going,” I say again, firmer this time. “Bryan isn’t going to figure it out just because I’m not glued to your side twenty-four-seven.” “Peach, it’s just—” “No.” The word scrapes out harsher than I intend, but I don’t care. His persistence grates on me, mostly because I can see where this is going. He’ll keep pressing, trying to dig into the reason I avoid places like that, but I don’t talk about it. Not now. Not ever. “I don’t know why—” he starts, only to stop when a girl sidles up to the shelf beside us. She isn’t fooling anyone by pretending to look at books, because her ears are all wide. I paste on a sweet smile and reach up, pretending to adjust Braydon’s collar. “Hold still,” I murmur. He raises a brow but quickly plays along, sliding his hand around my waist and tugging me against him. Now we’re chest-to-chest, close enough that my pulse skips in protest. The girl lingers a second too long before finally moving on. “Why can’t people just mind their business?” I mutter, tugging at his collar one last time before dropping my hand. He stays rooted to the spot, staring at me like he’s trying to figure me out. The silence stretches long enough to make me shift on my feet. “People are going to start talking about us,” he finally says, shrugging out of his jacket. “I know you hate loud places for some reason you won’t tell me, but everyone’s gonna be at that party. If you really want to prove him wrong, that’s the best night.” I open my mouth, ready to argue, but before I can get a word out, he presses his hockey jacket into my hands. Then, with a quick, almost disarming softness, he taps my chin with his knuckles. “I’ll see you tonight.” And just like that, he strides out, leaving me staring down at the jacket clutched in my grip. ... Open the app and continue reading the rest of the story . 👉 (It will automatically jump to the book when you open the app)

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I used to ask every new dialysis patient the same thing — "What was your A1C before your kidneys failed?" After 11,000 patients and the same answer every single time, I stopped asking. It was always "managed." It was always between 6.5 and 7.5. It was always someone who did everything their doctor told them to do. The chairs aren't full of people who ignored their blood sugar. They're full of people who trusted the wrong number. I need to tell you something I've been carrying for a long time. And I'm telling you now because last month I got my own prediabetes diagnosis — and I refuse to end up in one of my own chairs. I'm Sandra Keller. I've been a dialysis nurse for 14 years. Roughly 11,000 patients connected to machines. Let me tell you what that actually looks like — because most people only know the word. They don't know the room. Three days a week. Four hours a session. A needle goes into a fistula — a surgically created access point in the arm that leaves a scar most patients hide under long sleeves even in summer. The machine pulls their blood out, cleans it — does what their kidneys cannot anymore — and pushes it back in. For four hours. While they sit there. I've watched people cry during sessions — not from pain but from the weight of what their life became. I've watched a 61-year-old man read the same magazine in the waiting room every Tuesday and Thursday for three years while his wife was connected. I've watched patients stop traveling because they cannot miss a session. I've watched marriages buckle under the schedule. I've watched grandchildren learn to plan around Grandma's dialysis days — "we can't do Saturday, Grandma has her treatment." I've watched patients stop coming. And I know what that means. One of my long-term patients — a woman named Ruth, 63, three years in my unit — told me something I think about every single day. 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"My brother-in-law is not sitting in one of these chairs. And he was supposed to be." I took the bag home that night. I did what I've done my whole career when something doesn't add up. I opened my laptop at 11:30 PM and started reading. Here is what I found. And here is the thing I should have learned years earlier. Your A1C measures one thing: the percentage of your red blood cells coated in glucose. It's a rolling 90-day average of how much sugar is floating in your blood. That is all it measures. It does not see what that sugar is doing while it circulates. It does not see the tiny capillaries threading through your kidney tissue. It does not see the small vessels feeding the nerves in your feet. It does not see the delicate blood supply behind your eyes. It sees the level of the flood. Not where the flood is going. A 6.4 can be called prediabetic and your kidney filters can still be quietly wearing down behind it. A 6.8 can be called "managed" and the decline keeps moving. Both things are completely true at the same time. Because the A1C is tracking the water level. Your kidneys are paying the price of the current underneath. This is what produces foam in your toilet. The tiny filters inside your kidneys — glomeruli — have been under sustained pressure from glucose circulating through their walls for years. They start to fail. Protein leaks out. It shows up in your urine as foam that sits there after you flush. That foam is not a warning sign that something might happen. It is evidence that something is already happening. Let me explain the mechanism underneath — because once you see it, you'll understand why "managed" doesn't mean "safe." Every cell in your body has tiny doors on its surface — protein transporters called GLUT4. Their job is to open up, grab glucose from the blood, and pull it inside the cell where it gets converted to energy. In a healthy body, insulin gives the signal, the doors open, glucose moves from blood into cell, and blood sugar comes down. In insulin resistance — the thing underneath type 2 diabetes — those doors stop responding. They're still there. They just stopped coming to the surface. Insulin gives the signal. Nothing happens. Your pancreas sends more insulin. Still nothing. The glucose has nowhere to go, so it stays in your blood and keeps circulating. Your cells are starving. Your blood is flooded. And the sugar floating through your bloodstream keeps passing through every small blood vessel in your body, hour after hour, year after year, wearing the walls down from the inside. Think of your kidneys like the finest mesh screen you've ever seen — millions of tiny filters. That excess sugar is like fine sand being forced through the mesh under pressure. Hour after hour. Day after day. Month after month. The mesh starts to tear. First it leaks a little protein — that foam. Then the tears get bigger. Then the filtration rate drops. Then the whole system starts to fail. Metformin slows the flow of sand a little. But the sand is still coming. And the mesh is still tearing. And the monitoring? The monitoring just measures how torn the mesh is getting. Nobody is stopping the sand. And it is not just the kidneys. That same sugar pileup strips the insulation off your nerves — that's why your feet burn and your hands tingle. It starves your brain of fuel — that's why the fog rolls in by 2pm and the words get lost. It wrecks the tiny blood vessels behind your eyes — that's why the floaters showed up. It locks your body in fat-storage mode — that's why the belly won't budge. It shatters your sleep — that's why you're up three times a night with a racing heart. And it damages the blood vessels responsible for intimacy — that's why that part of your life quietly disappeared and nobody connected it to blood sugar. All of it — kidneys, nerves, brain, eyes, sleep, weight, intimacy — traces back to the same closed doors. Your doctor monitors the headline number. The story underneath it is your organs falling apart. Now — your medications. Metformin works on the input side of this problem. It tells your liver to produce less glucose. It reduces the flood. That is a real, useful thing and your doctor is not wrong to prescribe it. But it does not touch the doors. The GLUT4 transporters are still not responding. The glucose that remains in your blood — even at a "managed" level — keeps circulating. Keeps passing through your kidney capillaries. Keeps grinding the mesh. Because the drug that reduced the flood did not open the drain. And here is what stopped me cold at 2 AM in my kitchen with 14 years of dialysis nursing behind me: The research on how to open those doors exists. It has been published. Peer-reviewed. Cited by the ADA's own journals. Sitting in databases that a 15-minute appointment leaves no time to read. There is a specific compound that triggers GLUT4 transporters directly. It bypasses the broken insulin signal entirely. It goes to the cell, speaks to the machinery inside it, and wakes the doors back up. A 2003 study in Diabetes Care — the ADA's own flagship journal — showed these compounds produced a 29% drop in fasting blood glucose. A study published in the Journal of the American College of Nutrition found that MHCP triggers the same internal chemical cascade that insulin is supposed to trigger, and was 20 times more effective at activating this pathway than any other natural compound tested. Twenty times. A second study in the Archives of Biochemistry and Biophysics confirmed that Ceylon extract physically increases the number of GLUT4 transporters at the cell surface. The doors do not just crack open. They multiply. A 2012 review in the Journal of Medicinal Food analyzed eight randomized controlled trials and found meaningful drops in both fasting glucose and A1C. Published. Replicated. Real. And in 14 years of working at the end of the road — watching thousands of patients get pulled into those chairs — not once had anyone put this in my hand. Not because doctors are hiding it. Because the pipeline that moves research from a journal into a treatment room runs on patent money. You cannot patent a plant. So no pharmaceutical company funds the trials that would land it on a sales representative's desk. No sales rep walks it into a primary care office. The studies stay in databases. The patients keep coming in with foam in their toilets and GFRs that drop another point each quarter. That is not your fault. You took the pills. You tracked the number. You kept every appointment. You were not failing the system. The system was only giving you half the answer and never telling you the other half existed. Now. You have probably tried cinnamon before. You sprinkled it on oatmeal. You found a bottle at the grocery store or on Amazon and took it faithfully for three months and watched your meter not move. I've watched patients bring supplement bottles to their dialysis sessions and ask me if they should keep taking them. I need you to understand exactly why most of them fail. They use the wrong plant. The cinnamon in your spice cabinet and in most capsules is Cassia. It looks the same. It smells similar. It is a completely different species with a completely different chemical makeup. At the doses required to move blood sugar, Cassia silently burdens your liver. The European Food Safety Authority documented that as little as a quarter teaspoon per day pushes daily coumarin intake past safe limits — and coumarin damages liver tissue at therapeutic doses. You were not taking the wrong amount. You were taking the wrong plant. True Ceylon cinnamon contains 250 times less coumarin. It is the only species appearing in the clinical research showing real metabolic results. They are catastrophically underdosed. Clinical trials used concentrated extract equivalent to 6,000 to 7,200mg daily. Most capsules contain 500 to 1,500mg of raw powder. That is not a small gap. That is the difference between a therapeutic dose and a decorative amount. They use the wrong delivery format. The active compounds in Ceylon — the ones that wake up GLUT4 transporters — are fat-soluble. Your cell walls are a double layer of fat molecules. Fat-soluble compounds need fat to pass through them. A dry powder capsule has no fat. So the compounds reach your gut, look for a fat carrier to cross the cell wall, find none, and pass straight through without ever reaching the cells that need them. Your cinnamon did not fail because cinnamon does not work. It failed because it was never delivered. The bag that my patient set down on the table next to his chair? He was taking Metabolae. True Ceylon cinnamon. Cinnamomum verum, sourced from a single estate in Sri Lanka's Central Province — the original home of true cinnamon, where the tree has been cultivated for over two thousand years. DNA-verified at the species level. An actual Certificate of Analysis, not a label claim. Dosed at 7,200mg equivalent per softgel. A 12:1 concentrated extract. The dosing range that corresponds directly to the published clinical trials. Suspended in MCT oil from coconuts. Not as a filler. As the delivery system — the fat bridge that carries the active compounds through your cell wall and into the cells where the GLUT4 transporters have been waiting for years to be told to surface. Third-party tested. GMP-certified. Every batch verified for purity, potency, and coumarin levels. Made in an FDA-registered facility. Zero fillers. I ordered a bag that night. Week 1, the fog lifted. Not managed — lifted. I finished a twelve-hour shift and still had thoughts left. My feet stopped aching after long days on the floor. I slept through the night for the first time in months. Week 2, my fasting readings — which had been running 135 to 145 — started showing up in the 110s. I checked three times the first morning I saw 108 because I didn't believe it. Week 4, the readings stabilized in the low 90s. Stable. Consistent. The kind of numbers I had not seen since before any of this started. Week 8, I pulled my own labs. Creatinine back to 0.8. GFR climbed from 86 to 91. Week 10, my doctor pulled up my full panel. A1C down from 6.4 to 5.4. Creatinine holding at 0.8. GFR at 94. Seven pounds gone without changing what I ate. She looked at the numbers. Looked at me. "What did you change?" I handed her the research I'd been reading at 11:30 PM for three weeks. She read for ten minutes. Closed the folder. "Your kidney function improved." I nodded. "Keep doing whatever you're doing." That patient who set the bag on the table? He's still on dialysis. That door closed for him a long time ago. But his brother-in-law — the one he told me about — came in with him to a follow-up visit two months later. I met him in the waiting room. A1C 5.9. Creatinine stable. GFR climbing. Not in a chair. Not going to be. He looked at me and said: "The drain opened." I've recommended Metabolae to eight patients now. Or to their family members in the monitoring window — the ones who still have a chance. Every single one has come back and reported the same pattern. Better sleep within the first week. Steady energy through the day. Lower fasting glucose within the first month. One woman — 58, A1C 6.9, protein spillage climbing for three years — came back at her 90-day follow-up with spillage down 45 percent. She cried when she told me the foam in her toilet was gone. Another patient's GFR went from 53 to 59 in four months. His nephrologist, who had been preparing him for the dialysis conversation, told him the trajectory had changed and asked what he had added. But the one I think about most is Ruth. I told her what I'd found. She looked at me with tears running down her face and said: "Tell everyone. Don't let them end up like me." That's why I'm writing this. If you are sitting in the monitoring window right now — if your A1C is between 6.0 and 7.5, if your doctor keeps saying "we'll keep an eye on it," if your creatinine is creeping up a tenth at a time, if your GFR is dropping a point or two each quarter, if there is foam in your toilet, if your feet tingle — try Metabolae risk-free. Ninety-day money-back guarantee. No questions asked. If your fasting glucose does not come down, if your kidney markers do not move, if you see no difference in 90 days, you pay nothing. The patients who see real movement in their kidney function are the ones who committed to at least three months. That is how long it takes to give your GFR a real chance to stabilize and shift. That is how long it takes to move A1C meaningfully. The 90-day guarantee means those three months cost you nothing if the numbers do not move. Here is what happens if they do. Your fasting glucose starts dropping between weeks 2 and 4. Your sleep improves within the first week — most people stop waking multiple times within 5 to 7 days. Your energy levels out through the day. And at your next lab draw — the one where your doctor has been saying "let's keep an eye on it" — she pauses. Looks at the numbers. Looks at you. Asks what you changed. You tell her. She uses a word you have not heard in years of appointments. "Improving." Not managed. Improving. The window stays open. The chair stays empty. One softgel daily with breakfast. That is the whole protocol. Metabolae is a small company sourcing verified Ceylon from a single estate in Sri Lanka's Central Province, testing every batch, using a fat-based delivery system that costs more to produce. When a batch sells out it waits on the next harvest. If you click and see out of stock, sign up for the notification. If it is available, order now. There is a promotion running currently. Three bottles at a significant discount — which is exactly the window for the kidney markers to actually move. If you are dealing with: Foam in the toilet that will not go away no matter how many times you flush. Tingling or burning in your feet that your doctor calls neuropathy. Fasting glucose that will not come below 130 no matter what you cut out. Creatinine climbing a tenth at a time every quarter. GFR dropping while your doctor "keeps an eye on it." An A1C your doctor calls "managed" or "prediabetic" while your body keeps sending signals that something is wrong. Give it 90 days. Track your fasting glucose every morning. Note your sleep, your energy, your feet. Go back for your next labs. If the numbers do not move, you get your money back. But if they do — if your kidney markers hold or climb, if the foam stops, if your doctor pauses over your labs and says the word you have been waiting to hear for years — you will understand why I now have a standing conversation with every patient who still has a chance to avoid my chairs. The doors are closed. The sand is still coming. But the window is still open. Don't let someone else tell your story with the words "I wish someone had told me sooner." I just did. Click below and get Metabolae while it is still available. ~ Sandra Keller, RN, Dialysis Unit, 14 years 👉 https://metabolae.com/products/ceylon-cinnamon-7200mg

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The queen bee of our school watched *Terrifier* and got this brilliant idea. She wanted to know what it felt like to be hunted by a real killer. Connor grew up on my block. He didn't hesitate. He grabbed a few guys from the locker room and knocked me out cold. They used fake blood and Halloween props. Turned me into a monster. Their little gift for Harper. "Relax. It's just a prank. She's tough. She'll be fine." "Besides, she does whatever I say. She'll play along." I woke up with my face painted into something unrecognizable. Industrial zip ties cut into my wrists and ankles. Silver duct tape sealed my mouth shut. Then they shoved me in front of Harper. She screamed. Then she grabbed a steel folding chair. The kind they stack in the auditorium for school assemblies. She swung it into me. Once. Twice. Three times. More than a dozen. My bones shattered. My face caved in. The last thing I heard through the fog was Connor's panicked voice. "It was a joke! Maya, stop faking it. Get up!" I didn't get up. I spent three months in the Memorial Hospital ICU. Machines kept me breathing. But I wasn't the same girl anymore. And Connor? He lost his mind completely. *** That afternoon, the AP Physics classroom buzzed with something electric. Harper, the most popular girl in school, had just finished watching the latest *Terrifier* reboot. She leaned against Connor's desk, all soft edges and calculated sweetness. She wore an expensive Ralph Lauren sweater. Her fingers twisted through blonde hair. Her voice dripped with that fake-helpless tone. Part pout. Part invitation. "Connor, I really want to know what it feels like. Being that scared. In real life." She paused. Something sharp flickered behind her eyes. "Those CGI effects are so boring. Zero adrenaline." Connor sat up. His quarterback's shoulders squared. The corner of his mouth curved into that familiar smirk. His I've-got-a-genius-idea look. "Easy. I got you." His eyes swept the room. They passed over every corner, every face. They landed on me without surprise. I was hunched over my physics problem set. The one for MIT early admission prep. My pen scratched across scratch paper. "Maya!" His voice cut through the room. "Get over here." I looked up. My fingers were numb from gripping the pen too long. I shook them out and stood. I always went when Connor called. Since we were kids. When he broke someone's bike and blamed me in grade school. When I wrote his history papers in high school. It was reflex now. Burned into my bones. "What's up?" I asked. I tightened my ponytail without thinking. Connor leaned back in his chair. His arm draped over Harper's seat. Casual. Possessive. It stung more than I wanted to admit. "Prank idea. You'll help us out. Super simple. Just dress up like a monster and scare someone." I frowned. I glanced at the binder on my desk. "I need to study. AP Physics mock exam tomorrow." "Jesus. Just a minute." He cut me off. His voice carried that entitled edge. Star athlete. Untouchable. "You've always had my back." The football guys in their varsity jackets piled on. Tyler banged the desk, laughing. "Come on, Maya. Don't be a buzzkill." "Connor asked you himself." Jackson chimed in. "It's a Halloween-level gag. What's it gonna cost you, ten minutes?" Harper's voice came next. Soft. Sugary. "Nerd girl, just help us out. I really want to experience it." She leaned into Connor's shoulder as she said it. I looked at Connor's face. That expectant look. Blue eyes I'd known since we played in the dirt together as kids. Eyes that didn't allow refusal. I nodded. Like I always did. I didn't know that nod would destroy every last hope I had of escaping this neighborhood.They told me they needed Hollywood-level special effects makeup. Told me to wait in the drama club prop room. "Go ahead. We'll grab the fake blood." Connor said it like it was no......

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