A beat. Then the audience applauds again, fuller this time—like they just got permission to forgive themselves for every shortcut they’ve ever taken to righteousness.
Cole nods, solemn. “You also credit the people around you for the second chance.”
“Absolutely,” I say. “My team. The lawyers. Harper. Evelyn and her crew for documenting the truth when it was easier to look away.” I flick a glance to camera two. “And strangers. People who sent five dollars and a message that said, ‘We see you.’”
I give them the line, soft as butter. “I’m just grateful someone believed in me.”
A tear actually happens—no tissue necessary. One single, camera-friendly tear that burns on the way down.
Cole gestures. “You said at the gala that ‘justice is a team sport.’”
“I meant it,” I say. “And I hope to spend whatever time I have left returning the favor.”
We go to break on a close-up of me not blinking.
Backstage during the ad block, Cole leans in. Off-mic, voice low. “For what it’s worth, you’re very compelling.”
“For what it’s worth,” I murmur back, “I know.”
He laughs—real—and pats my hand. We roll again. Softer couch banter now, late-night fluff: comfort food, morning routine, the Valley things I’m learning to pretend to love. The credits hit like a prayer answered. Applause floods one last time. Cole walks me offstage. His producer mouths: nailed it.
In the hall, Blake hooks an arm around my waist and lifts me for one single heartbeat. He sets me down fast, remembering the cameras still see everything.
“You were perfect,” he breathes.
“I was inevitable,” I say.
The car ride home smells like hydrangeas. Cole’s social team has already posted the clip; it’s climbing. My inbox turns feral—book proposals, free merch, outrage from people who hate me and can’t stop watching. Lila scrolls beside me, narrating at speed.
“Donations up sixty percent since your segment started,” she says. “Three anchors DM’d to book you tomorrow. One wants a breakfast hit on the East Coast. You’d have to be up at four.”
“I don’t sleep,” I say. “I rehearse.”
“Bless you,” she says. She types with surgical precision. “Also—Harper texted again. ‘Proud of you. Call me?’”
“Let her sweat,” I say. “She disinvited me. Let the empty chair keep her company.”
“Copy,” Lila says, and pins a star next to it on her spreadsheet.
When we reach the grounds of St. Mary’s, Blake opens my door and offers me a hand as I step out, looking me over like I’m the last line of a poem he’s trying to memorize.
“You felt it, didn’t you?” he asks.
“Which part?”
“The moment the room shifted and surrendered.”
“Always feels the same,” I say.
We step into my rental. Lila floats toward the second guest room to start tomorrow’s Inbox Triage in a nest of throw pillows and index tabs. Blake sets his camera down gently, the way some men set down newborns, and turns to me.
“Tomorrow we amplify,” he says. “You’ll post a thank-you. The doc’s account will post a behind-the-scenes reel. We’ll push the legal fund one more time while the iron is still white-hot.”
“We,” I say again.
He comes close. “I can’t stop looking at you when you’re. . . like this.”
“Alive?” I ask.
