There’s an entire thread debating whether I’m her “project,” her “stray,” her “emotional support gladiator.”
My jaw tightens.
“They don’t know you,” she whispers. “They’re turning your whole life into a sideshow.”
“They’re doing the same to you,” I say. “Only their favorite word for you is naïve.”
Her mouth twists. “That one stings more than ‘spoiled.’ Isn’t that funny?”
No part of this is funny.
“We could give an interview,” she says finally, voice small but determined. “Tell the truth. Our way. Control as much of the narrative as we can.”
“Would anyone believe us?” I ask. “That you didn’t walk away for headlines or rebellion, but because you chose your own life… and I happened to be in it?”
“I don’t know.” She sets the phone aside as if it suddenly weighs too much. “But hiding won’t fix it either. I spent my whole life hiding in plain sight. I’m done.”
I think about cameras. Lights. Questions designed not to reveal truth but to make good clips.
“What if we make it worse?” I ask. “What if everything we say gets twisted and used to hurt you?”
Her throat works. “What if it gets twisted and used to hurtyou?”
Westare at each other, both of us breathing too fast, hearts not in sync.
My phone buzzes again. A new text.
SilverPoint Emergency Vet Clinic.
Lucky is ready for discharge! Come anytime after 2 pm to pick him up.
Something inside me unclenches.
“At least that’s good news,” Charity says, reading over my shoulder. Her voice wobbles ongood.
“Yeah,” I say. “It is.”
“We can’t go in the front door,” she adds after a beat. “The reporters will stake out the clinic. If they haven’t already.”
“I’m sure they have,” I say grimly. “They may be vultures, but they’re not stupid.”
“We can’t leave him there,” she says. “Not after everything he’s already survived.”
“No.” I shake my head. “We won’t.”
I step back into the hallway to make the call.
SilverPoint is better at this than I expected—they’ve apparently dealt with “high-profile clients” before. They offer to bring Lucky to us in a clinic vehicle, and come through the back entrance of the hotel. No drama.
When I end the call and return, Charity’s chewing on her lower lip.
“Well?” she asks.
“They’ll bring him here,” I say. “To the hotel. Around five.”
Her shoulders drop a fraction. “He’ll be here. With us.”
“With us,” I confirm.
