“You know, I was a fan. I even had a poster of you on my wall.”
What the hell was I saying?
Demi wrinkled her perfect button nose, obviously not buying it, although it was true.
The crew and Jazzy were all dumbfounded as well. I couldn’t tell by Jazzy’s expression whether she thought this was going to be a disaster or if she could work with this.
Meanwhile, I was cursing the Greek gods. Well, one in particular—Zeus. Only he would think to meddle in this way with a Roman. The worst part was I could do nothing about it. I knew if I retaliated, I would pay for it. Not like I wasn’t already.
I could hear the online commentary now:
Roman Archer’s gone soft.
What happened to the tough-hitting interviews?
Not that I was unkind, but I took love seriously. And admittedly, the kind of people who came on our show lookingfor love typically had some issues that needed to be worked through. Either that or they were attention seekers looking to launch a career or save one. But as an Archer, it was my job—my privilege—to help anyone who sought love to find it. And sometimes that meant asking the hard, at times uncomfortable, questions.
In my experience, when people faced their demons and dealt with them, it opened the door to love. Then Demi, acting as the head of the Bureau, would slam the door on them because they didn’t meet the criteria of her forsaken guidebook.
I was no fan of Demi’s, and hadn’t been for a long time. So the fact that was I sitting there acting like a fangirl was not only out of character—it was infuriating.
Demi bit her velvety, pouty lip, bewildered, not saying a thing.
Finally she whispered, “Did you really have a poster of me?”
I cleared my throat. “Yes,” I reluctantly admitted.
The corners of her lips ticked up just a little, but she quickly suppressed the smile. “Huh,” she breathed out.
“Huh” was right. I had no idea where to go from there. Then the damn voice that wasn’t my own whispered,Get her to tell her story.
I had to stop myself from groaning aloud.
Instead, I gently nudged her. “The world is going to want to know where you’ve been. Here’s the chance to tell them your story. Why did you disappear? What have the last fourteen years looked like for you? Why return now and here on my show?”
Demi cautiously looked around the room, at the crew, the cameras, Jazzy, who was nodding at her encouragingly, and then back to me. It was easy to see—she didn’t trust me.
She clasped her hands together and let out a long, slow breath. Her gaze shifted away from me, settling on the camera lens like it was safer than my eyes.
She wasn’t going to tell me her story.
But she was resigned to tell the world.
“Well,” she whispered. “After the accident, my life changed in ways I never anticipated, and honestly, it crushed me. My mom,” her voice cracked. “My best friend and cheerleader died.” She barely kept her emotions in check.
And somehow, I felt it too. A lump formed in my throat—uninvited, unwelcome. But it was there all the same. I hadn’t expected to feel anything.
Not for her.
Not like this.
The room was silent. Even the crew had stilled, as if afraid to breathe too loudly for fear of sending her back into hiding.
“Not only was my mom gone,” she began, “but so were my Olympic dreams. And then for the father who had never been part of my life to suddenly take custody of me—it was overwhelming. I didn’t know who I was anymore. And I couldn’t bear to face my fans, the world, anyone who knew me before. How could I face them when I didn’t even know who I was? When I still don’t.”
She paused. Then turned her beautiful head just enough to meet my gaze. Her eyes were as steely as ever when they connected with mine. But this time, a part of me felt like I deserved it.
Eros was right. I didn’t know his daughter. And for the first time, I felt like that was my fault—not hers.
