“You were. . . perfect,” Lila says softly, almost to herself.
I meet my own eyes in the black microwave door. “No,” I say. “I was believable.”
The clock above the stove flips to midnight. Donations keep moving. Comments multiply. Somewhere, Harper is chewing her cuticles over police files and conscience. Somewhere else, someone anonymous with a microphone is loading a new clip into the chamber.
My PR team shuts everything down that needs shutting. Blake edits until dawn, carving me out of hours into eight sharable minutes that will seed new hours. Lila schedules, organizes, triages, smiles, the perfect constellation of competent orbit.
“Tomorrow,” Blake says from the couch, eyes already closing, “we go again.”
“We always go again,” I say, and turn off the kitchen light.
In the dark, the room hums with devices that keep track of what belongs to me. It’s not peace. It’s better. It’s control.
America saw my smile tonight. It saw my tears. It heard the line and believed the prayer.I’m just grateful someone believed in me.
They did. They do.
And if they stop, I know how to make them remember.
I crawl into bed and reach for the journal that’s been my anchor each night since I found it hidden in the chapel.
I read another story about a fallen woman—disgraced, destroyed, dehumanized. In the margins are phrases like:beware the worshipper, we always remember, never forgive—never forget.I add my own poetic warning:love is leverage andbeauty hides rot.
I close the journal, tucking it under the mattress, before I curl into my pillow as a triumphant smile turns my face.
Some women build a family.
I’m building a legacy.
And some legacies require sacrifices.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Shae
Harper brings the letter folded into thirds, like it might bite if she opens it too fast. We’re at my small kitchen table. Blake is out doing pickups for Evelyn. Cameras off. This is supposed to be a safe hour.
Harper doesn’t smile when she sits.
“I got something,” she says, and slides the paper across the table.
I don’t touch it right away. I don’t need to read it to know. The air shifts—the way it always does before something ugly steps into the room.
“What kind of something?” I ask.
“Anonymous.” She watches my face, bracing for a tell. “It was mailed. Not emailed.”
Of course it was.
Iris? Kelly? Dean? Dean always liked things that felt official—tangible—like he still mattered.
I unfold the letter slowly, as if I’m humoring her. As if this is new. My eyes skim lines that land too clean to be random.
She comes from evil.
Manipulation runs in the family.
Her father.
