She’s become a symbol.
A movement.
My thumbs shake as I swipe back to the camera.
Front-facing.
Just me and this storm.
“Hey,” I say, voice low, the wind roaring around me. “It’s me. Leo.”
I laugh once, bitter, at how weak that sounds.
I tilt the phone so the ocean is behind me in shadow.
“Jade… this is for you,” I whisper. “I?—”
“STOP.”
I jump so hard I almost drop my phone.
There’s a figure hustling up the path, clutching a big scarf around her face to block the wind, hair whipping.
Tristan’s PR girl.
“Are you insane?” she shouts over the wind. “Please tell me you did NOT just post anything.”
“I didn’t!” I yell back. “I was just recording.”
“Good.” She presses a hand to her heart. “Don’t. Yet.”
I frown. “I thought you said this was a good idea.”
“It is agreatidea,” she says, catching her breath. “But right now, to the internet, you’re the rich guy at the prep school who broke the heroine’s heart. You’re the villain. You don’t start with a grand romantic confession.”
“What do I start with, then?”
“Making people see you as a person. As a boy, not a headline. They need to like you, Leo. Or at least understand you. Before they root for you.”
I swallow. That stings. Because she’s right.
“So what do you want me to do?” I ask.
She grins, sharp and professional.
“We start at the beginning. Tomorrow. Your house. Your world. We show them who you really are.”
I snort. “A spoiled, privileged, trust fund cliché? That’ll help.”
“Trust me,” she says. “Boy born with everything who somehow had nothing emotionally? That story sells. That story earns sympathy. That story sets up the love letter. Tonight was the trailer. Tomorrow’s the movie.”
The waves crash again. I look out over the water.
“Fine,” I say. “Tomorrow then.”
She pats my arm like I’m a skittish horse.
“Good. Do not post from the cliffs. Save the poetry for later. Right now we’re going to build context.”
