Anyone else think that journalist seemed a little... obsessed?
Imagine writing a hit piece on someone you're clearly in love with lmao. Someone’s desperate for attention..
Typical omega. All about the feeeeeeeeeels
So Jamie Dean spent months ‘investigating’ the alpha he’s obviously got a thing for? Hahaha.
Jamie Dean’s a creepy little fucker. Fight me.
Warren’s people are riding the wave.
My phone buzzes and for one completely irrational moment I am sure it’shim.
Instead, it’s a message from Kate.Hey big bro. I just heard about you and Georgia. So sorry. I really liked her.Big love to you.
I put down the phone and stare at the ceiling until I finally pass out from exhaustion.
For the first three days after Point of Contention, they keep me at the estate.
"You need to lie low," Warren says. "Let the initial frenzy die down. No public appearances, no statements, nothing that gives them fresh footage to dissect."
By day four, Warren changes tack.
"You're starting to look like you're hiding," he tells me over breakfast. "The press is camped outside the estate. If you don't show your face soon, they'll assume that you have something to be ashamed of." He slides a folder across the table. "I've arranged two events this week. Film premiere tonight. And the National Business Excellence Awards on Friday. You're presenting the Innovation category."
I flip through the folder and see itineraries, talking points, lists of people I should be seen talking to. Everything is planned down to the minute.
"I might call Georgia,” I say. If I can get her to stand next to me, it might go a long way.
Warren's expression tightens. "Miss Mitchell's representatives have indicated she's not available for joint appearances at this time."
I’m unexpectedly disappointed, but not surprised. I’d do the same in her position, but still, it’d have been nice to have had her there.
"Fine," I say. "I'll go alone."
"Not alone and you can’t take a woman you might be seen as cheating with. The story is that Miss Mitchell is recovering from the flu and so won’t be attending. You’ll take your mother. I'll seed the guest lists with friendly faces. We’ll have people who'll be seen talking to you, laughing with you. The image we want is relaxed, confident and completely unbothered."
Unbothered. Right. "I can do that.”
On Thursday night, the red carpet is a gauntlet of flashing cameras and shouted questions. I step out of the car and the noise hits me immediately—my name, called from a dozen directions at once, mixed with questions I pretend not to hear.
"Carter! Carter, over here!"
"Mr. Crane, any comment on the Glass interview?"
"Is it true you're a prime match with Jamie Dean?"
"Where's Georgia tonight?"
I smile. I wave. I pause for photos in front of the branded backdrop, angling my body the way I've been taught, keeping my expression pleasant and relaxed. The photographers shout instructions—"To the left!" "Big smile!" "Over here, Carter!"—and I comply automatically.
This is supposed to be easy. I've done hundreds of red carpets, thousands of press lines. I know how to work a crowd, how to project confidence, how to make small talk with strangers. This is what I was raised for. This is what Cranes do.
But tonight, everything feels wrong. My smile feels like a mask. Every time someone mentions the interview, I have to force myself not to flinch.
"Quite a week you've had," one studio executive says, his tone carefully neutral. His wife stands beside him, not even pretending she isn’t curious.
"Interesting times," I agree, and steer the conversation toward the film. I make it through the premiere. I sit in the darkened theater and stare at the screen without seeing it.
