"Then let them watch." Eleanor's eyes were fierce. "Let them see who you really are. Not the caricature from the courtroom. The real you. The woman who gave her last two cans of soup to a stranger's child. The woman who stood up to a monster to protect a seven-year-old. The woman who told the truth even when it cost her everything."
Her words settled in and overshadowed my doubts, sparking against something that had been cold and dark for days.
"She wins if I hide," I said slowly.
"Yes."
"She wins if I let her version of me become the truth."
"Yes."
"And Millie..." I thought of gray-blue eyes, of a small hand gripping mine, of a voice askingPromise?"Millie needs someone in her corner."
"She needs you, Claire. Not the tutor. Not the employee. You."
I sat with that for a long moment. The fear was still there, of course it was. The fear of cameras, of confrontation, of walking back into the orbit of a family that had nearly destroyed me.
But beneath the fear, something else was stirring. Something that felt like the first green leaf sprouting through scorched earth.
"I have to go see her," I said.
Eleanor smiled. "I know."
"Will you… I mean, can you?—"
"I'll be right here when you get back." She stood, pulling me up with her. "Go shower. Put on something that makes you feel strong. And Claire?"
"Yeah?"
"Whatever happens at that hospital, whatever Victoria says or does, remember who you are. Not who they said you are. Who you actually are."
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
An hour later, I stood outside my apartment building, car keys in hand, a small stuffed sloth tucked under my arm. I'd bought it weeks ago because it made Millie laugh, something about how it looked perpetually confused.
The drive to the hospital took twenty minutes. I was scared out of my mind. But I was going anyway. I spent every second of it rehearsing what I'd say if I ran into cameras, into Victoria, into Nathaniel. By the time I pulled into the parking garage, I'd planned for seventeen different scenarios and felt prepared for none of them.
The media scrum was visible from fifty feet away.
Cameras, reporters, and a small crowd gathered near the main entrance. Predictably, in the center of it all, holding an elaborate bouquet of white lilies, stood Victoria.
She was dressed in dove gray, the picture of elegant grief. Even from this distance, I could see the careful construction of her performance, her trembling lower lip, the glistening eyes, the way she clutched the flowers like they were the only thing keeping her upright.
I should have turned around. Should have found another entrance, waited until she left, and avoided the confrontation entirely.
Instead, I found myself walking toward the doors.
What are you doing?my brain screamed.This is insane. This is suicide by media.
But my legs kept moving.
Victoria's voice drifted toward me as I approached, amplified by the cluster of microphones: "...haven't slept since it happened. The guilt is unbearable. I just want to hold her, tell her I'm sorry, but my husband…" She paused, dabbing at her eyes. "He's always been controlling. Quick to punish anyone who doesn't fall in line. The restraining order isn't about protecting Millie. It's about punishing me."
Oh, that's rich,I thought.That's genuinely impressive manipulation.
I kept my head down, aiming for the automatic doors. I just had to get past them. Twenty feet. Fifteen.
"Is that Claire Cross?"
