She lowers her voice like we’re discussing a covert unit. “Cole Bishop.”
Blake whistles through his teeth. “Network.”
“Primetime network,” Lila confirms. “Eight-minute A block and couch carryover if you slay.” Papers rustle. “Wardrobe wants to coordinate with their set. White is still working. Pearls. Minimal sparkle.”
“Angelic,” I say. “Sanitized.”
“America-safe,” she says. “Also—your new lawyer emailed. He loved your ‘justice is a team sport’ line. Can you say it again tonight?”
“I can embroider it on a pillow,” I tell her. “Any landmines?”
Her pause is microscopic. “Harper posted a quote about ‘truth being a moving target,’ then deleted it. She texted me asking if you’re okay.”
“Tell Harper I’m incandescent,” I say. “And busy.”
“Copy.” Lila exhales. “I’ll be at your place in twenty to pull looks. Blake, are you shooting BTS?”
“Sunrise to tears,” he says.
Lila laughs. “Perfect.”
She hangs up. Blake sets his mug down, crosses to me, and brushes a lock of hair behind my ear like we’re in a perfume commercial.
“Tonight,” he says, “you’ll own the room.”
“I already own it,” I tell him. “Tonight, I invoice.”
* * *
The convent house kitchen turns into a war room. Lila arrives with groceries and a plan; Blake arrives with batteries and a lens. Evelyn arrives with a headset (imagined), clipboard (real), smile (documentary-ready).
“Let’s rehearse the arc,” she says, already unzipping dresses. “Open with gratitude. Pivot to broken systems, not broken people—important distinction. Touch the charity, touch the lawyer, point to the fund link they’ll put on-screen. No naming The Watcher. Don’t dignify rumors.”
“I never dignify,” I say, stepping out of my robe. She helps me slide into a simple white sheath. The fabric has weight. It says:I have nothing to hide—and the body to prove it.
“Spin,” she orders. I do. She nods. “Hair down. Soft waves. Try the single-strand pearls.”
Blake films from the living-room archway as if I might bolt.
“Say the line,” he prompts.
“Which one?” I ask.
“‘I’m just grateful someone believed in me.’”
I give him a sideways smile. The line plays saccharine if you tilt it wrong. I tilt it right.
“I’m just grateful someone believed in me,” I say into the hallway mirror, then add, “—and I hope to spend whatever time I have left returning the favor.”
Lila points a pen at me. “That. Keep that. That’s money.”
She pins the jacket hem like a seamstress paid in headlines. I catch her eye in the mirror.
“You like this, don’t you?” I ask.
“Like what?” she says, feigning confusion.
“Being close to heat.” I turn. “You’re smart. You keep pretending you don’t know you’re smart. Why?”
