That lands.
He exhales hard and drags a hand through his hair. “You think I don’t see what this is? A half-sister with dirt on dear old dad? A revenge tour waiting to happen? This letter doesn’t just hurt you, Shae. It blows up the whole narrative.”
“You’re worried about my narrative?”
“I’m worried about mine.” His eyes finally pin me. “You think Netflix keeps the hero edit if this goes public?”
Ah.
“There it is,” I murmur.
He bristles. “I could’ve sent it straight to them.”
“Did you?”
A beat.
“No.”
“Then why are you here?”
He hesitates, and that’s when I know. He didn’t come to destroy me.
He came to be chosen.
“I wanted you to hear it from me,” he says. “Before it gets… messy.”
“How noble.”
“I mean it.” His voice drops. “I’m trying to protect you.”
I laugh—sharp, bright, and genuinely amused. “Oh my god. You really believe that.”
His face darkens. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make me the villain.”
I push off the counter and step closer—close enough to see the pulse in his neck. “You showed up at my home drunk and smug, with copies of my mail. If you’re not the villain, you’re auditioning.”
He swallows. “I’ve already shared the letter.”
The air changes.
“With who?” I ask, too quick.
“People.”
My stomach doesn’t drop. My mind moves instead—mapping, sorting, calculating. “Names.”
He smiles, and this one is ugly. “A podcaster. Maybe a producer. Hard to keep track.”
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” He leans in. “Maybe Iris will have her own show soon. Runs in the family, right? You two tearing each other apart for clicks.”
He thinks that gives him power.
