She corners me in the supply room. “Shae—what you did—the anonymous donation to Hearth & Hands—it was so generous. Everyone is talking about it, you’ve already done so much. You’ve been a godsend.”
Her voice is laced with sugar. It makes me want to choke.
“I’m just glad I can be of help,” I say. “The community here has given me so much, I just wanted to give what little back I can.”
The truth?
I haven’t donated a dime to this sad place. It’s interesting that someone did and they’ve all attributed the generosity to me, though. If they only knew.
At lunch, Blake corrals me like an eager assistant director. “Focus on Lila—she’s your arc. Redemption, frailty, faith. The audience eats that up.”
Of course.
I nod, stirring my soup. “Got it.”
Over the next few days, I begin subtle sabotage.
With Isabelle, I plant the idea that a foster family might prefer a younger child with less baggage. She shuts down completely, convinced they’ll pass on her the second she slips. She clings to me.
“I’ll always be here,” I whisper, and she believes it.
With Mr. Kavanaugh, I ask if there’s room for grief therapy. He says there is, but he’s afraid to go alone. So I suggest I can sit with him. He looks at me like I’ve handed him oxygen.
With Lila, I let it “slip” that Dawn is considering replacing her for gala planning—that she’s “too emotionally entangled” with clients. I watch Lila stumble, heart cracking in a way that reads beautifully on camera.
Blake captures everything with that relentless lens. His proximity makes me dizzy—lover, accomplice. He doesn’t soothe the fire. He feeds it. “The way you comforted her mid-breakdown,” he murmurs, pleased. “Oscars-worthy.”
I inhale. Thriving.
And then everything snaps.
Isabelle tears down the hall, sobbing that the foster parents canceled. She’s running out of time, out of options.
I catch her by the shoulders and pull her into an empty office.
“You’re not losing anyone,” I hiss, voice low, eyes cold. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
She clings to me. I let her.
Mr. Thompson hears the crying and steps in. “What’s going on?”
“There are worse things than grief, Mr. Thompson,” I purr. “Abandonment. Betrayal. But Isabelle’s got me.”
He nods, relieved. A man soothed by a story he wants to believe.
Meanwhile, Lila is kneeling in the kitchen, tears dripping into her sleeves, convinced she’s worthless. “Shae, I ruined everything.”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” I whisper, brushing her cheek with a fingertip. “Faith isn’t about never falling. It’s about knowing you’ll be caught.”
She breathes like she’s been saved.
Blake’s eye is hungry.
“I’ve got enough here,” he murmurs. “But we can go deeper next week.”
I nod. More crusades to orchestrate.
Walking home, I think of Kelly. Of being written off. Of every lonely child abandoned by a parent—every soft soul waiting for a hero.
