The drive into Providence was familiar—almost too familiar. The kind of route you could make on autopilot after living here long enough.
I’d driven it plenty of times when life was simpler.
But today it felt different. Like I was moving forward and circling back all at once.
By the time I pulled into the gravel lot beside the early-century bungalow—now repurposed into a polished office space—I was holding my breath and forcing my shoulders back, determined to keep moving forward.
Inside, there was no receptionist waiting. Just soft lighting, worn hardwood floors, and the faint scent of fresh coffee.
Then a tallish woman appeared in the hallway, stepping out from one of the open doors like she’d been expecting me. She was just a little older than me, maybe five years, and dressed professionally but not stiff.
“You must be Luna?”
I nodded, my pulse still tripping along in my throat.
“Hi,” she added, offering her hand with a calm, no-pressure smile. “I’m Mallory Anderson.”
For the first time all morning, I felt my shoulders drop a fraction.
“Did you get the documents I emailed this morning?” I asked, taking the seat she offered across from her desk. Despite the stacks of file folders covering almost every surface, everything looked intentional—a controlled kind of chaos.
“I did. Brilliant work, Luna,” she said, flipping through the single folder in front of her. “I don’t think it’s a stretch to say we can turn this all around.”
Her pen tapped lightly against the paperwork.
“The pre-existing contract terms work in our favor, especially when paired with the timeline surrounding The Incident. The station’s liability isn’t as airtight as they’re trying to make it sound. And depending on how they handled certain communications afterward…” She glanced up with a faint smile. “Well, let’s just say there are opportunities here.”
By the time I left her office, I felt better than I had in months.
Mallory had already set up an appointment for us at the station down in Newport, where we’d be meeting with Leo, the station manager, and their lawyers the following week.
All the way back to Walpole, my mind kept replaying everything—the incident, the betrayal, and the online posts.
But this time, I was seeing it all from a different angle.
Had I made mistakes? Absolutely.
I’d ignored red flags with Leo.
I’d trusted too easily.
I’d even let myself fall for a really, really wonderful guy when I should’ve known better than to jump into something so soon after this whole mess.
But I hadn’t done anything wrong.
And as I turned off the highway, winding through town toward Mom’s neighborhood, something new began to rise inside me—a pulse, a slow, hot throb of clarity.
I wasn’t the one who cheated. And after we broke up, I wasn’t the one who lied or twisted the truth for clicks and likes.
Leo had.
The days that followed passed in a strange, suspended kind of calm.
I kept busy.
I finished the paperwork Mallory needed, researched new cars, and avoided awkward conversations with my mom.
I cooked. Cleaned. Took long walks around the neighborhood.
