I went back inside, my heart doing something complicated in my chest. Purrsephone was waiting by the door, and I swear she looked smug.
"Not a word," I told her.
She purred.
I changed in record time—jeans, a normal sweater (forest green, no sequins, no lights), my actual coat instead of whatever fever-dream outfit I'd assembled. I scrubbed the tape residue off my upper lip and put the baseball cap back on, but at a normal angle this time, like a person who was just cold rather than a person in hiding.
When I climbed into the passenger seat of Farley's Range Rover, he gave me an approving once-over.
"Much better. You almost look like a regular person."
"High praise."
"I'm known for my effusive compliments." He started the engine, and the car filled with warm air from the heating vents. "Shall we?"
The drive down the mountain was winding and beautiful, all bare trees and frost-covered fields and the occasional glimpse of distant peaks. For the first few minutes, neither of us spoke. The silence wasn't uncomfortable exactly, but it was full—weighted with everything we hadn't said since the Shifflett's incident. I could feel the questions building between us, all the things we'd been carefully avoiding.
Farley broke first. "Can I ask you something?"
"You can ask. I can't promise I'll answer."
"Fair enough." He was quiet for another moment, eyes on the road. "Why did you come here? To the mountains, I mean. Not to Charlottesville."
I considered deflecting. Giving him the sanitized answer I'd prepared for Sabrina, the one about needing a break and wanting to enjoy nature. But something about the way he asked—direct, curious, not fishing for gossip—made me want to be honest.
"I'm at a crossroads," I said. "My contract with the show is up at the end of the season. The network wants me to re-sign for three more years."
"And you don't want to?"
"I don't know what I want." I turned to look out the window, at the blur of winter landscape. "I've been playing the same character for seven years. Dr. Brock Blaze, the brilliant surgeon with a heart of gold and a jaw that could cut glass. I've had my memory erased twice, been poisoned three times, died and came back from the dead once—long-lost twin, very dramatic—and had approximately seventeen love interests, none of whom lasted more than a season."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It's absurd. But it's also... safe. Predictable. I know who I am when I'm Dr. Brock Blaze. I know what people expect from me." I shook my head. "Out here, without the scripts and the costumes and the carefully managed public appearances, I don't know who I am anymore. And that terrifies me."
Farley didn't say anything for a long moment. Then: "I read about the tabloid stories. The ones speculating about your... sexuality."
My stomach clenched. "Yeah. That's fun."
"Your agent leaked them, didn't she?"
I turned to stare at him. "How did you—"
"I work with authors. I've seen the same pattern a dozen times—agents or publicists creating controversy to drive engagement." His grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly. "It's manipulative and invasive, and I'm sorry you had to deal with it."
Something in my chest cracked open. "I’m nervous that people assume I must have been in on it. That it was some kind of publicity stunt I agreed to."
"Were you?"
"No." The word came out harder than I intended. "I've been out since I was twenty. Before I was famous, before anyone cared. My sexuality isn't a brand strategy—it's just who I am. And having it questioned, constantly, by my own agent, for the sake of clicks and engagement metrics..." I trailed off, suddenly aware of how much I'd just revealed.
"That's why you fired her," Farley said quietly. "Or are in the process of firing her."
"I told Sabrina I didn't want to hear from her until I got back from vacation. Which is the coward's version of firing her, I suppose." I managed a humorless laugh. "I'm not good at confrontation. Seven years of pretending to be Dr. Brock Blaze, and I still haven't learned how to be direct about my own feelings."
"You're being pretty direct right now."
I looked at him—really looked, taking in the sharp profile and the careful way he held himself, the tension in his shoulders that suggested he understood something about hiding behind walls.
