The woman looking back at me seems steadier than I feel. Like she’s already decided who she is, and I’m just catching up.
Thenavy dress is simple—elegant without trying too hard. Professional but not stuffy. I paired it with my pearl earrings and single-strand necklace, and then pulled my platinum hair back in a low twist. Trying to look credible, mature, like someone whose choices should be taken seriously.
Draco appears in the doorway, and I turn to see what he's chosen.
Black jeans. A dark gray henley. His leather jacket. The same boots he wears for street performances.
"You're not changing?" I ask.
"Into what?" He looks genuinely confused.
"Something more… formal? We're going on camera."
"I'm going as me." He says it simply, like it's obvious. "If people can't handle that, they won't handle anything else we have to say."
He's right. Of course he's right. But my hands still shake as I reach for my coat.
We stop by the front desk on our way out—one of the front desk staff promised to keep an eye on Lucky while we're gone, and he perked up at the attention like he owned the place.
Twenty minutes later, our taxi crawls through Manhattan traffic while my stomach performs acrobatics.
"You're going to wear a hole in it," Draco says, nodding at where I'm worrying the seam of my jacket.
I force my hands to still. "What if this backfires? What if we make everything worse?"
"Then we deal with it." He takes my hand and threads our fingers together. "But at least it'll be our story. Our truth. Not whatever narrative your parents or the media wants to spin."
Nora Mann's office is in a converted brownstone in the West Village—the kind of place that screams understated professionalism. Nothing flashy, nothing desperate for attention. Just solid, credible journalism.
Exactly what we need.
A young assistant greets us at the door and leads us upstairs to a room that's been set up for filming. Two chairs angled toward each other, soft lighting that makes everything look warm instead of like a criminal interrogation, cameras positioned to feel conversational rather than confrontational.
Nora rises when we enter. She's younger than I expected—maybe late thirties—with kind eyes and an air of calm competence that would put me at ease if my heart wasn't trying to escape my chest.
"Thank you for trusting me with this," she says, shaking our hands. "I know live interviews are nerve-wracking, but I promise this will be conversational, not confrontational."
"Live?" My voice comes out higher than intended.
"Live," Nora confirms gently. "I could swear we discussed this on the phone. It's actually better this way—no editing, no manipulation, just your authentic story. We'll stream it on our platform, and it goes out in real-time. Thirty minutes, max."
Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes where anything I say will be permanent, uneditable, out there forever.
Draco's hand finds mine. "We've got this. Better than letting everyone else tell our story for us," Draco says.
Nora smiles. "That's the spirit. This is your story—I'm just helping you tell it."
She walks us through the setup, shows us where to look and gestures to the bottles of water on the tables at our sides.
"Ready?" she asks.
Draco squeezes my hand. I squeeze back.
"Ready."
The cameras roll.
"We're live in three… two…" The camera operator points at Nora.
