The studio tilts. My breath comes shallow, too fast, not enough air.
Quotes from my mother, pulled and twisted:"Avery always wanted more than what we had. She was so talented, so beautiful. I knew she'd find a way out."
They made it sound like ambition. Like climbing. Like everything between Nick and me was strategy instead of love.
I keep scrolling, sickness building inside me. The details are laid bare, all facts, yet each word feels like a blade slashing into my flesh.
Martin Coyle's death, the gunshot, my mother's conviction. Manslaughter. Twelve years served. Rodney's name, his extortion charges. All of it dragged into daylight for strangers to pick through.
There are a few photos accompanying the article. My mother's face, weary and stripped of dignity—her mugshot from years ago. A later image of her, evidently snapped by a paparazzo while she was here in the city earlier this year. And below it, me at some gala, polished and expensive on Nick's arm. The contrast screaming everything the article wants readers to believe.
Does Dominic Baine know what he's marrying into?
The question sits on the screen like an accusation.
My legs won't hold me. I grip the edge of the supply table, knuckles white, making my cold cup of espresso jiggle. Shame rises from somewhere deep inside me. Sixteen years old in a police station, the whole town whispering. The shame feels the same now. The same exposure. I thought I'd buried it. Built a life on top of it. But here it is, clawing up through my chest, my throat, choking me.
I can’t deny the facts in the article, but none of it has ever been public before. Nick helped make sure of that. He kept my darkest secrets then took steps to ensure they never got out. Until now.
Oh, no.Everyone will see this. How many already have?
Nick’s associates. His friends. The wedding guests. Potentially this whole city, everyone looking at me, knowing—
"Avery?"
I’m so lost in my spiral of horror, the concerned voice seems to come from far away.
"Avery. Hey."
Hands on my arms. Lita's face swimming into focus, creased with worry. When did she cross the room? How long have I been standing here?
"What the hell just happened? You're white as a sheet."
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
"Let me see." She reaches for my phone, glances at the words filling the screen. “What the fuck?”
Matt gets up, crossing the studio. “What’s going on?”
I pull my phone back, clutching it to my chest. Can't let them see any more of it. Can't let anyone else see what I came from, what Nick is tying himself to, what the whole world will likely know now.
"I… I have to go." The words scrape out. Barely recognizable.
"Go where? Avery, talk to me—"
I shake my head. "I have to get to Nick."
I'm moving on autopilot now. Grabbing my bag from the chair, keys jangling somewhere inside. My hands won't stop shaking.
"Avery, wait." Lita follows me to the door. "You're scaring me. Are you okay to drive? Let me take you—"
"I'm fine. I just—I need to go. I need to see him. I’m okay."
The lie tastes like ash. I'm not okay. I may never be okay again.
But I have to move. Have to get to him. The need is physical, urgent, a pressure in my chest that won't ease until I'm with him.
"Let me know when you’re safe," Lita calls as I wrench open the door. "Please, Avery."
