"We need to go."
"I know."
But neither of us moved for another moment.
THE DAY FOLLOWED THEsame easy pattern.
Addison's roping lesson at Rhodes's ranch went perfectly. The kid was ready—confident, smooth, at ease with the rope. Just needed polish before Saturday's competition, now five days away.
The rope whistled through the air as she built her loop. Dust kicked up around her boots when she planted her stance. The leather and hay smell of the barn surrounded us in the afternoon heat.
"That's it exactly," Rhodes told her after she nailed the thirty-foot target three times in a row. "You're going to blow them away."
Her face lit up. "You really think so?"
"I know so."
After we dropped Addison home, I spent the afternoon at Crown & Grace with my remaining students. Mary-Kate Morrison worked on her dance routine, her laughter filling the studio when she finally nailed the tricky turn sequence. Gabriela Torres practiced her vocal piece, her sweet voice hitting the high note with newfound confidence.
Rhodes stayed close, watching from his usual position near the windows. But the tension between us had shifted. Every time our eyes met across the studio, my pulse jumped. Every time he handed me something, our fingers lingered just a beat too long.
Tonight, I kept thinking. Tonight we'd have time alone again.
By five o'clock, I was closing up the studio. Straightening throw pillows, turning off lights, running through tomorrow's schedule in my head.
I pulled out my phone to check Crown & Grace's social media accounts—something I did daily to engage with parents and share student updates.
I opened Facebook first. An unfamiliar post sat at the top of my feed.
"Presley Danforth coaches cheaters. Your kids aren't safe here. Ask yourself why she needs a bodyguard."
Confusion hit first. Then recognition. Then ice flooded my veins.
I switched to Instagram. Same post. Same malicious message. I checked the website contact form—compromised too.
All three accounts had been hacked. The posts had been up for over two hours based on the timestamps. Two hours while I'd been coaching students, oblivious.
The comments section was worse. Parents asking questions, expressing concern, some defending me but others clearly worried. Doubt spreading like poison through my carefully built community.
My hands went numb as I scrolled.
Rhodes appeared in my office doorway. "What's wrong?"
I couldn't speak. Just held out my phone.
He crossed the room, took it, scanned the screen. His jaw tightened.
"Sit," he said, already pulling out his own phone. "I'm documenting this, then calling Mae."
I sank into my desk chair while he worked. Screenshots of every post, every comment, every timestamp. His movements were efficient, methodical. Within minutes, he had Mae on the line explaining what happened.
"Platforms are slow to respond," he said after ending the call. "But I've filed reports with all of them. Mae's tracing the IP address. Posts will come down eventually."
"Eventually isn't good enough." I pressed my hands to my face. "Parents are reading this right now. Making decisions about their daughters' safety."
"Then we call them." He set down his phone. "Every family. You explain what happened, reassure them, remind them why they trust you."
"What if they don't believe me?"
