They branded me like a saint.
Now I’m their phoenix.
And tonight, Blake arrives.
I make iced tea because it feels like the kind of thing a redeemed woman would do. Lemon wedges. Mint leaves. A smile I could sell by the ounce.
He steps inside with his usual quiet swagger—dark jeans, stubble, a hoodie pulled halfway over his face like he’s allergic to attention but still needs it to breathe.
“Nice place,” he says, dropping his camera bag by the door.
“It’s humble,” I say, playing the part, “but I’m learning to appreciate the simple life.”
He grins. “You? Simple?”
I give him a look. “Don’t make me sharpen a toothbrush.”
We slip into an easy rhythm. I pretend to show him around—living room, kitchen, guest room that still smells like fresh paint. He follows, filming quietly. His lens doesn’t blink. Doesn’t judge. It just watches.
That’s what I like about Blake. He doesn’t need the lie to feel comfortable. He’s seen footage that didn’t make the cut. He knows Declan Ridge and I were working together on… something.
And Blake still chose to film me.
At dinner, he studies me over salmon and sweet potatoes like he’s trying to memorize my face. “You like it here?”
“It’s slow,” I admit. “Predictable.”
“Safe?”
I smirk. “Nothing about me is safe.”
He laughs—low, genuine. Not the kind you fake to disarm someone. The kind that says he sees me. All of me. And likes it anyway. Blake doesn’t flinch when I say the quiet parts out loud.
That makes him dangerous.
After dinner, we move onto the balcony. The night is warm and still, the garden below glowing in silver moonlight and sleepy. I sip my tea, watching moths commit suicide against the porch light.
“You ever think about starting over?” he asks.
“I’m doing it now.”
He shakes his head. “I mean for real. Not the performance. No cameras. No Harper. Just… a new life.”
I tilt my head. “You want me to run away with you, Blake?”
He doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t look away either.
That’s the thing about men like Blake. They don’t need saving. They need someone to match their rot. A mirror to hold up their shadows. He sees mine and smiles.
“The Watcher read letters from?—”
“The letters are fake,” I cut in. “Forged for soundbites.”
“Maybe.” His voice softens. “But I know you’re not what you pretend to be.”
I lean closer. “Good. Pretending is exhausting.”
“Ironic, you landing at the convent after everything.”
