"A mate who truly sees you will not make you smaller," Jennifer says with quiet conviction. "She—or he—will make more room for you to be large. For you to be accomplished and happy."
The words land like a key turning in a lock. Yes. That's exactly what I need. What I want. What I think—what I hope—Darhg might be able to give me. Room to be large. Room to be myself.
Jennifer reaches into her coat pocket and slides an index card across the table toward me. "Elga's shortbread recipe," she explains with a smile.
I pick up the card, reading Elga's bold handwriting with its specific measurements and enthusiastic notes about butter temperature. The simple gift feels precious, like being welcomed into something important.
"Listen to your guts, Rona. You know deep down if Darhg is right for you."
Jennifer reaches across the table and squeezes my hand, her touch warm and reassuring.
"We're here if you need us, no questions asked," she says. I’m not surprised to find that I believe her completely.
All too soon, she's bundling back into her winter layers, promising to visit again. The cold air rushes in when she opensthe door, but her words linger in the warm space like a blessing. When it shuts, the space folds back into quiet that now feels expectant rather than lonely. I set the recipe card on the mantle beside the rose petal salts jar that Darhg bought for me. The two small treasures look perfect together in the lamplight. They’re tokens of care and belonging that make this space feel more like home than anywhere I've ever lived.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel ready to fight for what I want instead of only surviving what happens to me.
I want to be brave enough to claim what's mine.
Outside, snow continues to fall in fat, lazy flakes that catch the light like tiny stars. The forest stretches endlessly in all directions, a white wilderness that should feel isolating but instead feels protective. Like the world has wrapped itself around this small cabin, around Darhg and me, keeping us safe while we figure out how to be brave enough for love.
Jennifer was right, I do know in my guts that Darhg is right for me. And I am strong enough to fight for what I want.
Strong enough to love an ogre who thinks he's too dangerous for happiness.
Strong enough to claim my own life, finally and completely.
Chapter Sixteen
Darhg
Ipullintothesnow-crusted diner lot, my breath forming white clouds as I step out into air that bites at exposed skin. A bell jingles as I open the narrow diner door, and the heat mixed with the smell of fryer oil hits my nostrils. It doesn’t take me long to find him.
Malcolm Bridgeman sticks out in the old-fashioned joint like a sore thumb. He rises from a corner booth as he sees me, a tall, lanky troll in an oversized hoodie, hood up overhis pale-green hair, his bright-yellow eyes squinting against the harsh fluorescent lights. Seeing the expression on his face, I know he doesn’t want to be here a second longer than he needs to.
I knew he would. He rarely ventures outside his secure penthouse in the city and even more rarely outside the city.
"Thanks for coming," I say, sliding into the cracked vinyl seat across from him.
“Small towns creep me out. Cozy diners creep me out more.” He snorts, casting a baleful look around. “I'm driving right back to New York the second we're done.”
“Let’s get on with it, then, shall we?”
I place Rona's phone on a napkin and slide the device across with the leaked video queued. Malcolm watches once with a concentrated frown, then returns to the footage, inspecting it frame by frame with lightning-quick thumb-and-forefinger flicks. I remain silent as the minutes pass and I watch his frown deepen. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting harsh shadows across his angular features as he works.
“It’s a fake, alright.” He looks up at me with a triumphant grin. “It’s a good one, but not good enough to fool me.”
“Show me,” I demand, leaning over the table.
“Here.” He pauses on a crowded background and points to one partygoer’s hand. “Extra finger. It flashes for two frames on the guy in the denim jacket, then it’s back to normal.”
Relief floods through me, even though I already knew the video was fake. Having technical proof feels like the first real weapon we've had in this fight.
“Is this enough to stand as proof?” I stare at the still image of the extra finger.
"For anyone who knows what they’re looking for, yes." Malcolm continues, his voice higher now that he’s getting excited. "But to the general public, I doubt it. Anyone can say it’s just a trick of the light or something. It’s not like the court of public opinion has a high threshold for truth. I’d say this is good enough for what it was intended for, ruining that girl’s reputation."
The weight of this limitation settles in my chest like lead. He’s right. Technical proof isn't enough to clear Rona's name. That video made the rounds on the evening news. Nothing can be done to erase that. People will believe their own eyes over some nerdy expert like Malcolm.
