She nods once, her glare sharp enough to melt a camera lens. “Let’s go. I swear, if one of them tries to touch you again, I’ll shove that mic somewhere creative.”
She tugs me toward the gate with zero patience for the chaos around us. “Give the poor girl space!” she snaps at the crowd. “This is a kindergarten, not a fucking press junket!”
“Thanks,” I whisper, ducking my head.
“Keep walking. Don’t give them anything.”
A parent—not so sympathetic—glares at me from the other side of the gate. She pulls her daughter closer, like I’m radioactive. “They’re hounding the children now. This is unacceptable,” she mutters to another parent, loud enough for me to hear.
I try to ignore the sting.
“Olive!” Another voice, closer this time. “Is it true you were homeless before moving in with Ash Ryder?”
Nina whips around. “Seriously?” she barks. “You’re harassing akindergarten teacher?”
The gate finally swings open, and Nina all but shoves me inside first. I scramble through, heart racing, and she slams the gate shut behind us with finality.
Inside the courtyard, it’s like stepping into another world—balloons from yesterday’s birthday party still flutter in the breeze, chalk drawings faintly visible on the pavement. But the noise outside taints it. Like oil spilled on water.
I press my back to the gate and take a shaky breath.
Nina squeezes my shoulder. “Don’t let them get to you,” she says softly.
Inside the kindergarten walls, staff bustle around with forced cheer, pretending nothing’s wrong. But it’s clear they’ve seen the crowd.
Ms. Renner won’t meet my eyes.
Mr. David gives me a polite nod, tight-lipped.
Janice, our sweet cook, actually winks and murmurs, “Didn’t know you were dating a rock god. Nicely done.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, not sure if it’s a compliment or judgment.
“You want me to hang around?” Nina asks. “Kick any reporters in the shins? Maybe stage a distraction?”
I almost laugh. “I think I’ll be okay. But thank you. Really.”
She hesitates, scanning my face. “Text me if anything goes sideways.”
I nod. She hugs me—hard—and then disappears down the hall like a stylish avenger.
I step into the Sunshine Room, the place I usually feel most like myself—and that’s when little Ava squeals, “Miss Hart! Are you famous now?”
I blink. “What?”
She giggles. “You were on my mommy’s phone this morning! Like a princess.”
My smile wobbles. “Was I?”
“Are you marrying a prince?” Milo asks, wide-eyed.
My heart thuds. I crouch down to their level, forcing a smile. “No princess here, kiddo. Just me, same old Miss Hart.”
My hands won’t stop trembling as I pass out crayons.
Crayons. I can do crayons. Crayons don’t ask invasive questions.
But just as I begin to breathe again, the office phone rings. Then again. And again.
