"Wewere amazing." He pulls me against his side. "You didn't back down once."
I rest my head on his shoulder, watching Manhattan blur past the windows. “You know what’s ironic?”
“What?”
“The tabloids saying you’re with me for money,” I say softly. “As if you’ve ever asked me for anything. You’ve never wanted my money. Not once.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then, “Your money never mattered to me. Still doesn’t.”
“I know.” I kiss his jaw. “That's why I fell in love with you. You never needed me for anything except… me.”
“That’s the part that counts,” he says. “The only part that ever did.”
The taxi pulls up to the hotel, and the sidewalk is mercifully empty. No cameras flashing, no shouted questions. Just the quiet hum of the city going on about its business, blissfully unaware of us
Myphone buzzes in my pocket. Then Draco’s. Then mine again.
“Should we look?” I ask.
Draco already has his phone out. He scrolls once, then shows me the screen.
A verified news account, timestamped three minutes after we went off air:
That was the most genuine interview I’ve seen in years. Two people just… being honest. Refreshing.
Another, from a cultural critic:
Watched the Pembroke–Draco interview. Expected scandal. Got a love story.
And an entertainment reporter:
Can we talk about how he defended her agency? More of this, please.
My hands shake as I scroll through more responses. Not all positive—some skeptics, a few cynics—but the tone has shifted. Less vicious. More… curious. Open.
“They’re listening,” I whisper.
“Some of them,” Draco says, but he’s smiling.
We step through the hotel doors hand in hand. A few guests glance up—polite curiosity, not hostility.
My fingers brush the pepper spray in my coat pocket—reflex, not fear.
Assess, then act.
Oneglance tells me everything I need: busy lobby, distracted people, no danger. I let my hand fall away.
The young man at the front desk waves us toward a small lounge where Lucky waits on a blanket he clearly believes belongs to him now. His cone knocks against the coffee table as he stands, tail thumping, and the familiar chaos of him grounds us both after the surreal intensity of the interview.
Back in our room, Draco slides the lock into place, and the click feels significant. The little kitchenette across from the beds glows softly in the under-cabinet lights. There’s a mini-fridge, microwave, and the narrow strip of counter that’s somehow become our makeshift landing spot for takeout containers.
The world is still out there—watching, judging, reacting. But in here, it’s just us and a dog wearing plastic headgear like a crown.
“We did it,” I say, still not quite believing it.
“We did.” He pulls me close, and I can feel his heartbeat finally settling. “How do you feel?”
“Terrified. Relieved. Like I just jumped off a cliff and haven't hit bottom yet.”
