“Good evening,” she begins, voice clear despite the wind. “You’ve heard a lot of stories about us. Some true, some… creative. Tonight, we’d like to tell you our own.”
I talk about second chances, about the difference between fixing a shoulder and fixing a life. She talks about building something worth fighting for, how light only matters when you share it.
The comments flood in—hearts, encouragement, the occasional troll drowned by kindness. For once, it feels like we control the narrative.
Then, mid-sentence, the screen behind us flickers. Static. A logo.
The feed cuts to a prerecorded segment—Harris at a podium, press cameras flashing. His voice is smooth as ever. “Due to ongoing investigations, we’ve placed Crew Wright on administrative leave. We wish him the best as he focuses on personal matters.”
Gasps ripple through the crowd. Bailey squeezes my hand. I stare at the screen, every muscle locking.
Laramie’s number flashes on my phone. I answer without looking away from Harris’s smug face.
“Crew,” she says, breathless. “It’s moving faster than expected. He leaked his own statement early. We’re intercepting the files now. Do not—repeat, do not respond publicly.”
Too late. Bailey’s already speaking into the mic. “You don’t get to narrate this one, Coach.”
The crowd roars approval, but I know what’s coming next—legal threats, media vultures, endless noise. The beam from the lighthouse sweeps over the porch, catches Harris’s face frozen on the paused feed, and throws his shadow long against the wall behind us.
I look at Bailey, steady in the chaos, and realize we’ve crossed the point of no return, but if it means giving everything up for her, then it’s worth its weight in gold.
Chapter Twenty-seven – Bailey
I don’t hear the truck pull up. I feel it. The way the floorboards hum beneath my feet, the way the gulls scatter like gossip, the way the air changes shape around him before he even opens the door.
Crew Wright walks into a room like gravity remembers who’s in charge.
He’s covered in morning—damp hair, a day-old stubble, shoulders carrying the weight of decisions that haven’t even been made yet. He’s still the man who can silence a room with a look, but now there’s something else, too. A quietness that didn’t exist before. A calm he didn’t have when he arrived in Coral Bell Cove months ago, limping through my door with a tote full of kids’ books and a heart he swore was temporary.
He sets his keys on the counter, glances at me, and exhales. “You saw the message?”
“Yeah.” The image—the grainy shot of us through the lantern room glass—still burns behind my eyelids.Would hate for anything to block it.It wasn’t just a threat. It was a reminder that fame never forgets your forwarding address.
I cross my arms, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “You handled it?”
“Mostly.” His jaw flexes, and I can tellmostlymeansbarely contained violence, disguised as strategy.“Laramie’s got the files. The kid came through. We’re safe—for now.”
For now. The two words I hate most in the English language.
I grab a rag and start wiping down the counter even though it’s already spotless. “So that’s it? They’ll just… stop?”
He shakes his head. “They’ll circle until they realize the story isn’t theirs anymore.”
“And when will that be?”
“When we decide it is.”
His voice has that low certainty again, the kind that makes my chest hurt because it sounds like home and danger at once.
He walks closer, slow enough for me to back away if I want to. I don’t. His hand finds the edge of the counter, fingers brushing mine just enough to make the air tilt.
“Bailey,” he says quietly, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For every time I thought silence was safer than showing up.”
I drop the rag. “And now?”
