“Two minutes,” he says. “Then I open the wing doors and let chaos reign. You do your part. I’ll handle mine.”
I press my hand to his chest and feel his heart bucking under my palm. “You’re a good man, Declan. The world will see that soon.”
He swallows, turns away, and walks toward the control panel.
The toothbrush is warm from my skin when I slide it into my palm.
This is the moment.
One clean stroke down my left cheek—precise, not deep enough to do real damage, but jagged enough to look vicious. Blood beads instantly, hot and metallic. I crouch by the toilet, smear it across my jaw, drag my sleeve through it. The cut sings.
I breathe through the pain. Pain is easy. Pain is honest.
From the far end of the corridor: a click. The whine of a door unlatching.
Then shouting.
I stumble into the hallway and drag a bloodied hand down the wall as I stagger like prey. On the other side of the block, Declan’s little storm hits: women screaming, one lunging, otherssucked into the chaos like it’s gravity. Metal clatters. A plastic chair cracks against something hard.
It sounds real.
That’s the brilliance.
I scream—once. Sharp. Panicked. Believable.
Then I crumple, clutching my face like I’ve been mauled.
Declan is already there, body blocking me, barking for backup with pitch-perfect alarm.
Down the corridor, Blake Owens—Evelyn’s cinematographer—captures everything from the far end of the hall, lens locked on my contorted face. He looks appropriately horrified. Blake has no idea this is staged.
But he’ll get his Emmy.
Minutes blur. Sirens. Boots. Hands on my arms. I’m swept away like a broken-winged dove, tucked against Declan’s chest as blood trickles down my collarbone and soaks the edge of my collar.
I make sure to catch Blake’s lens before the curtain swallows me.
Make sure the world sees the pain in my eyes.
Make sure it’s beautiful.
They put me in isolation. They call it protection.
I call it marketing.
Harper loses her mind when the news hits. Her voice cracks that night, begging her listeners to demand answers. Evelyn paces outside the prison gates with a camera in one hand and a megaphone in the other. Protesters gather. Signs wave. Someone spray-paintsFREE SHAEon the outer wall.
God, I love when people think they’re saving me.
I sit on the edge of my cot, sipping lukewarm tea, staring at the press release that’s been slid under my door:
The Influencer Murders: The Wrongful Conviction of Shae Halston — Season 2 Confirmed.
The Netflix logo glows in black and red.
My face—bloodied, brave—everywhere.
Mission accomplished.
