"Happy to help your ratings," Carter says dryly.
"Oh, you have. Trust me." Glass turns to face the camera directly. "Carter Crane III and Jamie Dean, together for the first time since the interview that launched a thousand ships."
The red light blinks off.
We don't speak as we walk off set. My legs are shaking—I didn't realize how much until I tried to stand. Carter keeps his hand on my lower back, steadying me, guiding me through the maze of cables and equipment.
Georgia is waiting in the hallway. Her face is unreadable.
"Well," she says. "That was something."
"Good something or bad something?" Carter asks.
"Both. Your father is going to be apoplectic." She shakes her head. "You basically just told the world you think he's guilty."
"I told the world I'm not going to protect him. There's a difference."
"A very fine one." Georgia's gaze shifts to me. "You handled yourself well."
“Thanks.”
"It shows." She glances at her phone, frowning at something on the screen. "I need to make some calls. The clips are already circulating. By morning, this is going to be everywhere." She looks back up at us. "Get some rest. Both of you. Tomorrow is going to be... a lot."
She disappears down the hallway, phone already pressed to her ear.
Carter and I are alone. The studio noise fades behind us as we walk toward the exit.
"We did it," Carter says quietly.
"Yeah."
"Any regrets?"
Carter's hand is warm in mine. And the baby is kicking. For a moment, it feels like it is too much. Everything has changed so fast, but for the first time in months, I don't feel like I'm hiding.
"No," I say. "No regrets."
22. Carter
The restaurant falls silent when I walk in.
Not completely. There’s still the clink of silverware, the murmur of conversations at far tables, but enough that I feel the weight of attention. Heads turn. Phones appear. Someone near the window takes a photo without bothering to be subtle about it.
I let them look.
For months, I’ve been dodging cameras, crafting statements, hiding the most important parts of my life behind closed doors.
There’s nothing left to hide. The interview aired twelve hours ago, and by now everyone in the country knows that Carter Crane III is having a baby with Jamie Dean.
The host approaches, professional smile firmly in place. “Mr. Crane. Welcome. Your usual table, or—”
“Something private, please. My sister’s joining me.”
“Of course. Right this way.”
He leads me through the main dining room. I keep my pace measured, unhurried. A woman at a corner table catches my eye and nods. I nod back. A man I vaguely recognize from a fundraiser last spring raises his glass in what might be a toast or might be mockery. Hard to tell.
Near the back, a journalist I’ve sparred with on cable news half-rises from his seat. “Carter. Hell of an interview last night.”
