“What happens now?” Star asks, her voice small against the vastness of snow and night.
“What matters is what we build together. Without her shadow, without her manipulation. Just us, moving forward.”
Star’s fingers tighten around mine. She smiles then—the real smile, the one that lights her eyes from within, the one my mother tried to extinguish. “You’re sure?” she asks one final time.
“I’ve never been more certain of anything,” I answer, bending to press my forehead against hers. Her skin is cold against mine, but warming quickly. “You are my family now. We’ll build something better together.”
Star’s arms slide around my waist, her body fitting against mine with the certainty of pieces designed to connect.
“Let’s go home,” I say, not meaning the estate with its cold grandeur and calculated traditions, but whatever place we choose to create together.
Star nods against my shoulder, then pulls back just enough to look into my eyes. “Home,” she agrees, the word carrying weight beyond its single syllable.
Together we walk toward my car, leaving paired footprints in the fresh snow.
Chapter 11
Star
The fluorescent lights of the roadside diner hum with a low, electric buzz, a stark contrast to the crystal chandeliers we left behind. I sit at a booth where the red vinyl is cracked and taped, my laptop open on the sticky Formica table.
The draft headline blinks at me:Art Therapy at Risk: Children’s Healing Shouldn’t Be Political.
We were halfway home when Cillian and I pulled over to work on a tactic against his mother, and the pending involvement of the Governor. Per Mary’s threats.
My fingers hover, but the words won’t come. Not yet.
Bea slides into the booth opposite me, shedding her sweater for a coat she must have grabbed in a hurry. She arrived ten minutes after we did, breathless and shaking, telling us she couldn’t stay in that mausoleum a second longer than we could. Even if it meant Mary was going to destroy her.
Now, she leans over the table.
“You need to start with the kids,” she says, pointing a manicured nail at the screen. “Make it impossible for anyone—especially the Governor—to see this as numbers on a spreadsheet or about social standing. It’s about faces, stories, lives.”
I glance at her, surprised by the steel in her voice. She’s not the fragile victim I saw at dinner, nor the rival Mary tried to invent. In this cheap diner, stripped of the Brown estate’s pretenses, she’s an ally.
“You’re right,” I admit. “If we show what this program means, they can’t deny the grant without looking heartless.”
She nods, already pulling out her phone. “I know a journalist at theTimeswho owes me a favor. If we get this polished tonight, I can make sure it runs tomorrow. Front page.”
The tension in my chest loosens. For the first time since stepping into Mary’s orbit, I feel like I’m not fighting gravity alone. “Thank you, Bea,” I whisper.
Her smile is small, sharp. “Don’t thank me yet. Let’s make it undeniable.”
We work side by side, shaping paragraphs, weaving in testimonies from nurses and parents I’ve interviewed. Bea edits with ruthless precision, trimming excess, sharpening impact. Mary underestimated her by keeping her in the role of moldable ex; Bea has teeth, and she’s finally ready to bite back.
Cillian returns from the counter, the bell above the door chiming faintly as the wind rattles the glass. He looks out of place here in his tailored coat, yet his expression is lighter than I’ve ever seen it.
He slides two fresh mugs of steaming coffee onto the table, the ceramic clinking against the Formica.
“Thought you could use this,” he says, sliding into the booth next to me. His thigh presses against mine.
“Perfect timing,” I say, wrapping my hands around the heat.
He lingers, his eyes flicking across the table to his ex-wife. The silence stretches, filled only by the hum of the refrigerator and the distant clatter of dishes.
“I owe you an apology, Bea,” he says, his voice low enough not to carry to the truck driver at the counter, but steady.
Bea looks up from her phone, startled. “You don’t have to—“
