“Sophia’s the one we spoke about,” Williams said.
Logan’s eyes sparked with interest, and he looked at me with a new intensity.
A hunger.
“She’ll tell you the whole thing,” Williams continued, “and we’ll decide which parts are best to share.”
Logan offered me a seat. The three of us settled into chairs arranged in a triangle, and he rested his elbows on his knees. “My primary goal here is to get the truth out there. The NAO needs to be stopped, both here and abroad, and if we can strengthen the Defiance, we may just be able to do that. Human atrocities tend to rile people up.”
My fingers plucked at the fabric of my pants. “Alright. What do you need from me?”
“The bald truth,” he said.
Williams offered me another smile. “Sophia, why don’t you start your story at the beginning?”
I took a deep breath and told them every tiny detail, unedited and without tact, and in far greater detail than what I told Williams.
How I’d gotten involved in the war in the first place—dragged along by my parents and their friendship with Theodore Harrison. My bond with Tekqua. The missions that resulted in the deaths of my friends and parents, and subsequently, the destruction of my humanity. How I’d considered death to escape the pain. I described the Lucas that didn’t exist, the heartless Blood Colonel who killed at will. I detailed every reprehensible sin he’d committed, all the innocent lives he’d taken.
As my story evolved—shifting from fear and distrust to embraces and whispered promises ofuntil I die—it becameevident I fell in love with my mortal enemy, and a spark appeared in Logan’s eyes.
After showing him the scars on my back, I resettled, and he stared at me for the longest time, chewing on his lip. “You’re right. This is the exposé that will clinch it.”
“Wait. You still think you can use that?” I asked with a laugh.
“Your story is a wartime fairytale, love. People will drool.”
I gave him a hard stare. “Theeditedversion.”
“Well, yes.”
For the next hour, Logan Bergeron and Nia Williams revised my life, removing the ugly bits. They erased my deep bouts of depression, my thoughts of suicide. They extracted Jayden entirely. My relationship with Theo was wholesome and intact.
They changed my entire affair with Lucas. Except for the kiss we’d shared to keep from being discovered, our physical relationship didn’t start until after he’d saved me from that knife wound. He didn’t execute anyone during our time together. The ring I wore symbolized his commitment to me more than his certainty that he’d die, like a wedding ring worn on the wrong finger.
I was never taken to Registration. They didn’t like the idea of Lucas letting me be taken from him. Instead, he happened upon me at poker night. He didn’t plan to kill them, but when he was caught helping me escape, we had to fight for our lives.
He was accepted as a Defiant without issue after that. We found safety with Theodore Harrison’s forces.
They whitewashed my life, and I didn’t care. Nia Williams held our safety in her hands, and I’d say whatever she wanted me to say. That evening, however, lying in Lucas’s arms, I considered the irony. They wanted my story to bring us help, knowing if I told the truth, the world might not give it.
Political manipulation at its finest.
The next morning, I woke early. My only stipulation for filming was that Lucas would be nearby, so when the time came, Isaac escorted us to the main building.
People eyed Lucas, but his novelty appeared to have worn off. Or perhaps the story of my attack in the woods gave people pause because they stayed far away. We meandered toward the assigned place—a room in the southwest corner of the building, draped in sheets to hide the unique architecture. A table had been set up outside with beverages, and several of the interviewees dawdled around it.
Lucas eyed the meager spread with a raised brow. “How thoughtful,” he said dryly.
Spotting me, one of the other interviewees volunteered a smile and handed me a cup of coffee, which I took despite a roiling stomach.
She held out a dish filled with white granules. “Sugar?”
Sugar.
The mug slid from my fingers, ceramic shattering and hot coffee splashing over my legs.
My lungs froze. Heart pounded.
