We disconnect. I forward him the files, then send my message to the journalist.
My phone goes off immediately—middle-of-the-night journalist apparently keeps weird hours. The response is three words:Holy shit. Call me.
Instead, I record a video.
Prop my phone against a stack of books, frame myself in the shot. I look like hell—haven't slept, hair tangled, still wearing the clothes I confronted Hammond in.
Good. Polished is for liars.
Press record.
"My name is Korgan Dongoran. I'm the bachelor on the current season ofHeart of the Horde, and I'm done pretending this show is anything other than manipulative garbage."
Deep breath.
"The woman you've been told is manipulative and calculated—Trinity Lewis—was framed. The producers edited her confession footage, fabricated text conversations, and coordinated with a rival contestant's agent to destroy her reputation for ratings."
I hold up the thumb drive.
"I have proof. Original footage, email threads, editing scripts. All of it. And I'm releasing everything to the press right now, along with this statement:"
My voice steadies.
"Trinity Lewis is the most honest person I've met in a decade. She's brave and funny and builds things, actual things, not just images or narratives. She makes bread that tastes like home and handles crisis with more grace than I've ever managed."
"And I love her."
The words feel strange in my mouth. Orcs don't use that word lightly. It's a vow, not a feeling.
"I should have said it when she needed to hear it. Should have stood with her instead of calculating political angles and worrying about clan approval."
"But I'm saying it now, publicly and irrevocably. I love Trinity Lewis. I'm courting her with full clan support?—"
Provisionalsupport, but close enough.
"—and I challenge anyone who spread lies about her to face me directly."
I lean into the camera.
"That includes you, Hammond. You, Carlisle. And you, Melissa, since your agent coordinated this mess with your full knowledge."
Stop recording.
Send it to the journalist with a note:Embargo until 6 AM. Give Trinity's video time to breathe first. Then release this with the files.
My phone explodes with notifications—messages from producers, missed calls from Hammond, all-caps texts from people who are strangers.
I silence it, open Trinity's video one more time.
Watch her stare into the camera and dare me to show up.
I'm fighting. Not just for my bakery or my reputation. For us.
I grab my keys.
Time to stop making grand gestures from a distance and actually be where she needs me.
Even if she tells me to leave. Even if I'm too late.
