Grace traveling out of state?
Complicated. Risk spike.
Grace stepping out in public, photographed, tagged, tracked, discussed online?
At least twenty countermeasures needed upfront.
Bones pacing beside her, protective instincts spiking so hard he’d probably punch the nearest camera?
Guaranteed.
Grace seeing old colleagues, old friends, people who’d known her before?
Unpredictable. Could be healing. Could be a landmine.
Grace wanting her life back?
Necessary.
Grace being hunted again?
Unacceptable.
“Bones,” Grace said softly, stepping closer. “I’m not asking to sign a thousand endorsements tomorrow. I’m just… thinking. Maybe rebuilding. Maybe slowly.”
“Dollface…” Bones exhaled like she’d punched him in the lungs.
“I’m not fragile,” she whispered.
He closed his eyes.
Fuck if I didn’t feel that like a knife slipped right between my ribs.
“She’s not asking for permission,” Voodoo said gently. “She’s asking what it looks like.”
“We can build safeguards.” Lunchbox nodded, thoughtful. “Start small. Interviews with vetted people. Shoots on our terms. Maybe bring an agent on board who understands discretion.”
Grace’s eyes brightened a little. “Yes. Like that.”
Bones shot the three of us the dirtiest look imaginable. “I see how it is. Mutiny.”
“Collective problem-solving,” Voodoo corrected cheerfully.
“Same thing,” Bones muttered.
Grace stepped closer to him and slid her hand along his arm. “I just need parts of my life back.”
He sagged. Just a little. Then he covered her hand with his own.
“You’re asking me to let you walk into the open,” he said. “After everything.”
“I’m asking you,” she whispered, “to walk with me into it.”
Something kicked under my ribs. I finally spoke. “We can do it.”
All eyes snapped to me—including Grace’s soft, hopeful blue ones.
“We prep,” I continued. “We plan. We build a firewall around your name. We manage every appearance, every shoot, every digital trail. We vet your agent, your circles, the locations. We put buffers in place. We decide what level of anonymity you want and where.”
