“Hungry,” he says.
I laugh. “I’m always hungry.”
He kisses my knuckles like a medieval knight. For a second, I let the fantasy breathe.
There’s a knock. Three quick, businesslike taps. Lila peeks around the corner. “Delivery,” she says. “From the studio.”
Blake opens the door. A PA hands him a slim black box with a handwritten card on top.Thank you for sharing your story. —C.
I open the box. Inside, a single white silk pocket square with the show’s logo stitched on the corner. A joke, a wink, a brand. I press the silk to my cheek for a beat, then drop it on the counter.
“Frame it?” Lila suggests.
“Wipe up spills with it,” I say. “Either way, it’s content.”
Lila’s phone buzzes. She reads. “Hearth & Hands wants you to tape a video thank-you to donors. They also want to invite you to their board. Unpaid, obviously, but prestige.”
“Tell them I’ll consider,” I say. “Prestige is a currency. I prefer actual currency.”
“Copy,” she says. She scribbles, then glances up. “You know I can take the board seat as your proxy. If you want a vote without. . . the meetings.”
I look at her. Lila’s eyes shine with something like devotion, or ambition, or both. I nod slowly.
“Do it,” I say. “You’ll say no to what I would say no to. You’ll say yes to what makes me bigger.”
“Always,” she says.
Blake watches us with an amused half-smile, like a proud stage dad whose star found the light. He lifts the camera again without asking.
“Say something to your people,” he says.
I face the lens. Imagine millions hanging on the breath between my syllables.
“Thank you,” I say simply. “For seeing the person I am instead of the story someone else wrote. For every message, every dollar, every time you corrected a stranger in a comment section. I carry you with me into every room, and I won’t waste what you’ve given me.”
Blake lowers the camera, satisfied. Lila claps softly like she’s afraid of waking the gods of engagement.
I slip off the pearls and lay them on the counter.
My phone lights. Another flood of notifications. And then, threaded between them, one new message from an unknown number.
Enjoy the applause. The credits haven’t rolled.
I stare at it. The tug at the corner of my mouth registers before my brain does. I can’t help it. Ilikea heckler. It means the house is full.
“Anything good?” Blake asks, seeing my expression.
“Everyone wants my skincare routine,” I say, dropping the phone face-down on the counter. “Also someone thinks I should rot.”
“Block and bless,” Lila says, automatic.
“Let them talk,” I say. “Talking buys time.”
Blake nods. “And time buys the ending.”
“Exactly,” I say. “And we sell the ending twice.”
He laughs. Lila checks another box off a list only she understands. I pour myself a glass of water, hold it up to the light. It looks like a prop: clear, innocent, everything you want to believe.
