He follows. Long strides. He catches my arm before I can step into the parking lot. “Hey. We can fix this.”
“Can we?” I ask. “Because the one person keeping me relevant through outrage culture just ghosted the entire internet. And now they’re whispering in Harper’s ear like they’re auditioning for her conscience.”
Blake blinks. “This may not be an issue like you think?—”
I shake my head. “Oh, it is. She didn’t tell me. Which means it’s bad. Which means she’s hiding something.”
His brows knit. “Or it means she’s trying to protect you?—”
“Protect me?” I bark a laugh. “No. That’s not how this works. I protect me. I’ve been doing it since before she learned how to hold a microphone.”
I’m moving again—past smokers in sequins, past waiters stealing five minutes of peace.
“She’s disposable,” I say, flat. “They’re all disposable. Harper, Lila, the donors, the local paper. I can get new ones. Better ones.”
“Shae.”
“I will burn this whole redemption project to the ground before I let someone else narrate my downfall.”
“Shae—”
“I’ll cut her off,” I snap. “Her, you, anyone who thinks they can pull a string and make me dance. I survived thirty-six months in a cage. I’ll survive this without anyone’s hand up my back.”
Blake steps in front of me, blocking my path. His voice drops to that low, careful register that makes people lean in.
“You’re not thinking straight.”
“I’m thinking perfectly straight,” I bite back. “If The Watcher’s gone, my leverage is gone. And if Harper starts doubting me?—”
“She’s not doubting you,” he cuts in. “She’s spooked. That’s different.”
My nails dig into my palms. “Spooked turns into silent. Silent turns into gone. That’s how people work.”
“That’s not how I work.”
I freeze. His eyes are steady, sharp. For once, he’s not filming.
“You need me right now,” he says. “And not just because I know how to keep the narrative on your side. You need me because you don’t know what’s coming next. I do.”
The wind rattles the metal siding behind us. Inside, the string quartet switches to an upbeat pop song no one can name.
“Fame isn’t a straight line,” Blake continues. “You think it is because you only look at the ones at the top. But it’s peaks and valleys. And right now, you’re in the valley. That’s where I’museful. I can make a valley look like a cliff face so everyone keeps looking up at you.”
His calm should irritate me. Instead, it slides into the crack in my chest like relief.
“I don’t trust people who want to ‘help,’” I say finally.
He smirks. “I’m not helping. I’m building. You just happen to be the face of the project.”
The implication—that I’m both centerpiece and pawn—should make me furious. Instead, it feels like oxygen.
“You can’t let them see you unravel,” he says, softer. “If Harper sees you losing control, she’ll start asking questions. Questions that don’t have answers you can post on Instagram.”
I let the silence stretch. A power play. He waits me out—his own.
Finally, I say, “Fine. But Harper tells me everything. Tonight.”
“And if she won’t?”
