The studio assistant—Bryn? Brie?—hands me a green juice. I take a courtesy sip. Grass and hope. “Do you have coffee?”
“We’re on a detox,” she says, thrilled, like she joined a cult and got the matching hoodie.
“I’m on a launch,” I say. “Bring me caffeine.”
She scurries.
Blake comes closer, the camera hanging from his neck, lens still pointed at me because he can’t help it. He documents me the way men document storms—with awe and a little fear.
“Look at you,” he murmurs. “You’re having fun.”
“Fun is the sound of money.”
I glance past him at the city. Downtown LA webs outward like a patchwork of steel and lost dreams. Somewhere in all that, Harper vanished into a hole the internet calls self-care and I call witness protection without the paperwork. Her feed went silent.She never posted our last interview. James posted once: a ring on a windowsill and a prayer-hands emoji. The comments think she’s pregnant.
I know better.
“Think she’s listening?” Blake asks, because of course he’s thinking of her too.
“Doubt it,” I say.
He watches me a beat too long, then flicks his gaze to my mouth like he’s reminding himself not to kiss it on the clock. Which is adorable. As if I don’t control all the clocks.
“I don’t know. Some people don’t come back for revenge. They just wait.”
I nod, thinking how right he is.
Bryn/Brie returns with coffee then. “Nitro?” she chirps.
“Saint,” I say, taking it. “If I take the Lord’s name in vain later, He’ll know it’s about you.”
She flushes scarlet and vanishes. Blake shakes his head, amused.
My phone rattles with a text from Iris.
Retreat venue is great! Welcome packets are set up at reception and transportation from the airport confirmed.
Perfect, I type back.Thanks for everything, you’re priceless, sister.I add that last word, a dark smile curling my mouth.
“Who’s got you smiling like a cat that ate an entire cage of canaries?” Blake asks.
“Iris,” I say. “Costa Rica. Making sure everything runs smoothly when we arrive.”
He grins. “You terrify people.”
“I give them a category to sort themselves into. Terrified is a category.”
“You get our flight details?” he asks. “Evelyn wants to lock the schedule.”
“Booked,” I say. “Direct out of LAX. Private transfer to Nosara. Resort sends a car.”
“And the practitioners?”
I sip, savor, lie. “Confirmed.”
He lifts a brow. “All of them?”
“Mm.” I keep it noncommittal. “I’m streamlining.”
