“They don’t add up because people lie,” I cut in. “And not just to protect themselves. Sometimes they lie because they’re bored. Or because they want attention. Or because they hate someone for being prettier than they are.”
Her voice wavers. “You’re twisting this.”
“Am I?” I lean in, locking onto her gaze. “Or are you letting some anonymous troll in your DMs tell you who I am?”
Her hands tremble now. She blinks hard, like she’s trying to force herself back into the version of reality where I’m the brave, misunderstood survivor she’s been parading around like a prize.
“Maybe we shouldn’t… maybe we need some space,” she says finally. “From all of this.”
I sit back, head tilting. “Space?”
“I think it’s best if… if you don’t come to the wedding. Or the retreat. At least until things settle.”
For a second, I just look at her—the tiny, quivering deer who thinks she’s found her voice. The thought flits through my mind, uninvited: if I disappeared her, everyone would say they saw it coming. That’s the problem.
Then I smile. “Of course. Whatever makes you feel safe.”
I end our tête-à-tête early, already knowing what I have to do.
When I get home, Blake’s in the kitchen making coffee. I drop my purse on the counter and head straight for the liquor cabinet.
“She cut you off?” he guesses without looking up.
I pour a drink. “Wedding and retreat.”
He finally turns. “You gonna let her?”
“Let her?” I take a slow sip. “Blake, she doesn’t get to decide the guest list for her own life. I do.” I grin, savoring the burn down my throat. “What Harper doesn’t know is there isn’t going to be a wedding.”
He grins back. “That’s my girl.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Shae
The week following the gala tastes like money.
It’s in the air—metallic, sharp—as if the whole town bled quarters into the streets and I’m the one with a magnet. Emails ping. My legal-fund thermometer graphic climbs like a fever. Hearth & Hands posts a thank-you reel with swelling music, grainy footage of me cutting a ribbon, a survivor hugging me hard enough to bruise. Comments bloom: ICON. WARRIOR. QUEEN. Emojis multiply like mold.
Blake leans in the kitchen doorway, coffee mug in hand, watching me watch the internet. He wears that satisfied-cat expression men get when they think they built the house you designed.
“Read them out loud,” he says.
“‘She makes me believe again,’” I recite, scrolling. “‘If they did this to Shae, they can do it to any of us.’ ‘Donated. Stay strong, sister.’ ‘The dress! The poise! The message!’” I look up. “And: ‘Where do I buy your lipstick?’”
He smirks. “We’ll put an affiliate link on the doc’s page.”
“We,” I echo, like a vow.
My phone rings. Lila—my new everything. She started as a volunteer at the charity with good eyebrows and a color-codedcalendar app. Now she’s my gatekeeper, handler, and plausible deniability in a wrap dress.
“Good morning, sunbeam,” she chirps. “You’ve had a night. I’ve moved your media hits into a block this afternoon. You’re onMidday Nowat 2:40. Zoom with theIndy Starat three. And—drumroll—the late-night booker wants you in studio tonight.”
“In studio?” I glance at Blake, brow arched. “Not satellite?”
“He saw the gala clips,” Lila says. “He wants to ‘capture the room falling in love with you.’ I told him we don’t do love; we do respect.”
“Cute,” I say. “Which host?”
