"I've been ready since the day he asked me. Maybe since before that."
Lita grins, but there's warmth beneath the teasing. "Look at you. All glowy and in love. It's disgusting. And also kind of adorable."
"Thanks. I think?” I reach for my cup of espresso, then decide to leave it sitting. “You’re still coming, right?”
She nods enthusiastically. "Normally, I wouldn’t get excited about a stuffy church wedding, but for you? I’ll make an exception. I bought a fancy dress and everything. Very civilized of me."
I smile at her. "I can't wait to see. I know you can rock a dress when you want to."
"Yeah, well, don't get used to it. This’ll be a one-time thing, then it’s back to ripped denim for me.”
The easy rhythm of our exchange loosens the tension I’ve been carrying. This is what I needed today. Friends who knew mebefore the penthouses and society pages. Who see me as Avery, not as an extension of someone else's world.
Lita downs the rest of her coffee, then pivots away from my station. "Back to work I go. That sculpture isn't going to weld itself."
I watch her cross the studio, sidestepping a stack of Matt's canvases on the way. I turn back to my own canvas, picking up my brush again, letting the conversation settle into comfortable silence.
The morning unfolds in layers of color and light. I lose myself in the work, adding another wash of translucent white to the upper portion, building the luminosity I'm after, stepping back to study the effect before leaning in again.
The colors are singing. I can feel it in my bones, that moment when a piece starts to come together, when the separate elements coalesce into something whole. Soon I'll have to stop, let the layers dry, come back with fresh eyes. But not yet. Just a few more strokes before I let it rest.
My phone buzzes on the supply table. I glance to the side, see it’s not Nick, then I go back to the patch of soft shadows I was working on.
My phone buzzes again. And again. Insistent in a way that cuts through my focus.
I set down my brush, frowning. Probably a vendor about some wedding detail. Or Rachel with a press request I'll want to decline. I wipe my hands on a rag and cross to the table, reaching for the phone.
I don’t recognize the number.
Something shifts in my stomach. A tightening, faint but present.
The preview text shows on the lock screen:Avery Ross - request for comment on article published today regarding...
What article? My thumb hovers over the screen. The tightening spreads upward, becoming pressure in my chest. Reporters don't usually text directly. They go through Rachel. Through official channels.
But sometimes, when a story is big enough, when they want a reaction before anyone can prepare me—
I unlock the phone. There's a link in the message.
Don't click it,some instinct whispers.Call Rachel first. Call Nick.
But my thumb is already moving. Already tapping.
The article loads.
The headline fills my screen, bold and brutal:
BILLIONAIRE BRIDE'S DARK PAST: EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH MOTHER OF AVERY ROSS
Below it, the subheadline:
From Pennsylvania Poverty to Park Avenue Penthouses: Convicted Killer Brenda Leigh Coyle Speaks About Daughter's Violent Childhood
Oh, shit. The phone shakes in my hand. My hand. I'm shaking.
I scroll down, unable to stop myself.
"While Manhattan's elite prepare for what's being called the wedding of the decade, the bride-to-be's past reveals a starkly different story. Avery Ross, fiancée to billionaire CEO Dominic Baine, grew up in rural Pennsylvania poverty, the daughter of a woman later convicted of killing her abusive husband..."
