They want women who make them feel like heroes.
And I’ve always been good at pretending.
Chapter Five
Shae
My name is trending again.
#FreeShaeHalstonis plastered across TikTok like it’s a new religion, and I’m the second coming. Fans are posting old photos, freeze frames from the docuseries, dramatic audio clips from Harper’s latest episode. Even a pathetic local news outlet ran a special on me last night—like I’m some sainted prisoner who just needs a hug and a competent lawyer to cure her of being convicted for murder.
Cute.
Netflix inked the deal this morning. Evelyn strutted in smug and glowing like a bride on her wedding day, whispering that season two was officially greenlit.
“The prison fight sealed it. We want to dig deeper,” she purred, red lipstick snagging on the worddeeperlike it’s foreplay. “Into the injustice, the broken system, your story.”
My story. Right.
She’s been trailing me through this hellhole of bleached walls and sagging mattresses for six months now with Blake—her hipster cinematographer who only speaks to adjust lighting. Evelyn’s lens adores me. I’ve lost some weight, and my cheekbones look criminal in 4K.
She believes in a redemption arc. That’s what she said after I told her about Kelly.
“I mean, you were just a child,” Evelyn whispered, eyes wet. “To be abandoned by your mother? That’s primal trauma. No wonder you struggled.”
Struggled.
That word always makes me want to vomit.
People struggle with bills. With addiction. With grief.
I survived.
And now I thrive.
It’s 7:00 a.m. when Declan swings by for count. His keys jangle like an old movie sound effect. He smells like cinnamon gum and Irish Spring—an unforgivable combination—but he’s handsome enough that half the block still flicks their hair behind their ears when he passes.
Pathetic.
“You good?” he asks, voice low.
I yawn theatrically and sit up. “As good as one can be in orange polyester and under constant surveillance.”
He chuckles and leans in the doorway like he’s posing for a soap opera still. “Thought you’d be happier today. All that attention. You’re even more famous now.”
I stretch like a cat, arching until my spine pops. “Fame is fleeting. I’m iconic.”
He smiles, shakes his head, biting back whatever comment wants to escape. He doesn’t get it. None of them do.
“You listen to Harper’s latest episode?” I ask, sliding off the bed. “She calls me a survivor.”
“You are,” he says, too quick.
I tilt my head and let the silence sit there, fat and deliberate, like I’m deciding whether to correct him.
I don’t.
Let him defend me. Men like Declan like feeling needed. It gives them purpose in their otherwise dull lives.
