And the wind at my back, howling louder by the second.
CHAPTER 23
KAIRO
The Holonet café is all chrome curves and synth-glass chandeliers, the kind of place where the pastries cost more than my electric bill and everyone looks like they have a publicist on speed dial. It’s the type of spot Roan loves—loud enough to drown out awkward conversations, quiet enough to pretend like you’re not having one.
I sit across from him in a booth that smells faintly of ozone and sugar dust, nursing a stim-coffee that tastes like liquified regret. Roan’s already half a mimosa in and swirling his compad like it’s a weapon.
“You’re killing me, Kai,” he says without looking up.
I blink at him. “Good morning to you, too.”
“You’re a week behind your delivery schedule. That’s not ‘creative burnout.’ That’s ‘contract breach’ with a sprinkle of ‘career sabotage.’”
I sip my drink. It scalds my tongue. I don’t flinch.
Roan sighs like I’m personally kicking his dog. “Don’t make me be the bad guy here.”
“I’m not,” I say, voice flat. “You’re doing a great job all on your own.”
That earns me a glance. He looks tired, which is rare for Roan. Usually, he has that polished, plastene energy that makes him seem half-robot, half-enthusiasm. But today, his eyes are bloodshot, and his blazer’s wrinkled at the collar.
“I’m trying to help you, Kai,” he says, leaning in now. “Thisthing—this whole ‘Jav Kuraken teaches kindergarten’ story? It’s gold. Literal marketing gold. Your books are soft-launching into a dip, and this is the kind of publicity arc authors sell kidneys for.”
“No.”
“Just think about it?—”
“No.”
Roan throws his hands up. “It’s not even a tell-all! It’s areframing.A creative reflection of?—”
“I said no,” I cut in, sharper now. “You want me to turn my life into a circus act? Write a memoir where I just out my son’s real father to the entire quadrant so some bored exec can slap a holo-drama pitch on it?”
Roan recoils, but not with surprise. With guilt. He’s already floated the idea, I realize. Probably to someone with way too much power and way too little taste.
“I wouldn’t use Ben’s name,” he says, weakly.
“You wouldn’thaveto. Jav’s face is everywhere now. And people already whisper.”
He frowns. “People love a redemption arc.”
I laugh, but it’s hollow. “Then maybeyoushould date him.”
His smile fades. “You’re scared.”
“Damn right I am.”
“You’re also lying to yourself.”
I meet his gaze. “And?”
“And you’re burning down everything you built just to keep pretending you’re fine.”
I stand before he can say anything else. The chair scrapes back too loud. Half the café looks over. I don’t care.
“Tell the publisher I’ll get them a draft. Fiction. No memoirs. No exposés. Just a damn story.”
