"I know, but this isn't on you. I'll talk to you soon, Mom."
We say our goodbyes and I end the call. My arm feels heavy, like the device weighs more than it should. The adrenaline that carried me through the conversation is fading, leaving me hollowed out, scraped raw.
Nick steps closer. His hands settle on my shoulders, turning me to face him.
"Look at me."
I lift my gaze to his. The rage is still there. I can see it in the hard set of his jaw, in the way the blue of his eyes has gone dark and flat, in the stillness of his body that I've learned means he's holding himself on a very short leash. But his hands on my shoulders stay gentle, thumbs brushing across my collarbones in a touch so tender it makes my throat tight.
"The publication that ran this?" His voice is low, quiet in a way that raises the hair on my arms. "They won't get away with it. I won't allow them to."
I stare at him, seeing the certainty written in every line of his face, knowing he means every word and nothing will stop him from following through. This is who he is. This is what he does for the people he loves. For me. He dismantles threats, systematically and completely, until nothing remains that could hurt them.
And God help me, I understand it. The protectiveness. The need to shield me from anyone who would drag my past into the light and use it as entertainment.
I understand it because I feel that same ferocity when I think of anyone hurting him.
"Nick." My voice comes out quieter than I intended. "What are you planning to do?"
8
NICK
Avery watches me, waitingfor my answer, but I don't have words for what's coiling inside me. The rage is too large, too dark, pressing against my ribs like something trying to claw its way out. I move to the window instead of answering, putting distance between us, and stare at the city without seeing it.
Behind us, the penthouse’s private elevator chimes.
Beck strolls out with Gabe right behind him.
"Garage is secured," Gabe reports, positioning himself near the doorway with the unconscious tactical awareness of a combat soldier who spent years clearing hostile rooms. "Paparazzi have been pushed to street level. Building management's cooperating."
I nod. “Good. What have you got for me, Beck?”
His gaze lands on Avery for a moment, sympathetic, then cuts to me with a look of concern. Fifteen years of friendship pass in that glance. He knows I'm barely leashed.
"Rennick Media Group," he says. "I have everything."
“Let’s have a look.” I lead everyone to my home office down the hall.
Avery settles onto the leather sofa, and instead of taking the chair behind my desk, I lower myself beside her. I’m immediately aware of the press of her thigh against mine, the warmth of her bleeding through denim. My hand finds her knee, and her pulse speeds at her throat. Even after the horror of this day, my body responds to that small flutter. I have to fight the urge to pull her onto my lap, bury my face in her neck, block out everything except her heartbeat against my chest.
Her phone buzzes and the whole room tenses. Avery glances down at the screen and exhales.
"It’s Rachel. She wants to know if we need her."
Avery’s publicist. I nod. "Get her on video. She should hear this too."
Avery sets up the call, propping her tablet on the coffee table. Onscreen, Rachel appears, looking polished and composed, the careful mask of a publicist who's seen her share of PR crises.
Her eyes go straight to Avery with genuine concern. “How are you holding up?”
“Okay,” she replies. “Thanks for calling, Rach.”
I make quick introductions for Rachel, then Beck leads things off.
"The publication is Manhattan Social Monitor," he says, his portfolio open on the table. "It’s essentially a tabloid rag, digital-first, owned by Rennick Media Group. Their advertising arm is healthy enough, thanks in no small part to Baine International’s accounts. But the rest of their business has been hemorrhaging money for eighteen months. Revenue down forty percent, carrying significant debt." He pauses, and I recognize the slight tension in his jaw. He's about to tell me something I won't like. "The reporter is a new hire, only a couple months on the job. Jessica Mallory, twenty-two. A year out of J-school, hungry for a break. She pitched it as a 'women overcoming incarceration' piece."
Twenty-two. A fucking kid. Yet ambitious enough to weaponize a woman's trauma for a byline.
