Then I hear the therapist gently close her notebook.
I blink. “Wait, that’s it?”
She offers a nod. “That’s our hour.”
I sit there a second, weirdly disoriented. Like I just woke up from something.
The sleet outside is still pelting sideways. I can hear it spitting against the tall windows. That bitter, gray New England cold you don’t quite ever get used to. I wonder if she notices I haven’t stopped fidgeting since I sat down. If she sees how tightly I’m wrapped in my hoodie despite the heat turned on.
She stands, and I do too, awkward and slow.
And that’s when it hits me.
She barely said a thing. No advice. No opinions. No sympathetic gasps or fake reassurance. She justlet me talk. Let the words fall out, untangled and ugly. And it was… freeing.
I pull my coat tighter around me and glance back at the little office—at the fishbowl, the bookshelves, the trashcan full of crumpled notes. A silent witness to a storm I’ve been keeping bottled up for too long.
Outside, the wind howls. The sleet cuts sideways like the world’s got sharp edges today.
But for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m breaking apart.
I just feel… a little bit lighter. But the anger inside refuses to die. It’s still there.
Buried deep.
Soul deep.
Therapy might work but deep down— I know that the only way to get rooted, buried things to surface is to dig it out.
The tennis lounge is velvet-roped and obnoxiously posh—high above an indoor court with clean white lines and bright halogen lights that bounce off every surface like a toothpaste commercial. Bellevue Avenue, Newport. The kind of street where old money still whispers louder than new.
I park my car around the block to avoid valet side-eye and climb up the stairs, boots squeaking from the slush. Everything smells like lemon polish, chlorine, and cashmere. I’m cold to my bones, but the second I walk in, I feel like I’ve been yanked into another dimension.
Lane is already waiting.
She’s wearing oversized sunglasses even though we’re indoors. Slicked-back hair. Thin black turtleneck. Her jewelry’s probably worth more than my car. Maybe more than myparents’car. Her voice, when she speaks, sounds like Park Avenue and Prada—clean, polished, tight.
“My boyfriend’s on the circuit,” she says breezily, nodding toward the court below where two guys in white polos are locked in a match that looks more like performance art. “He trains here sometimes. This place keeps a low profile. Private. Which is exactly what we need—until you’re ready to go nuclear.”
She flashes me a sharp smile and gestures to the table. I slide into the velvet booth across from her, my coat still zipped up to my neck. The server glances at me. I order a club soda.
Lane doesn’t miss a beat. “So. Jade.” She leans in like we’re about to talk dirty secrets. “Tristan tells me you wantDateline.TMZ. TheToday Show.” She pauses, swirling something citrusy in her coupe glass. “But I think you need to start smaller.”
I blink, half off-guard, half defensive. “Smaller?”
“Smarter,” she corrects, crossing her legs and snapping open a tablet. “We’re going grassroots first. Twitter—or whatever we’re calling it now, X—TikTok, Instagram, Snapchat. All of it. I’m making your profiles tonight. All linked, all clean, all verified. We’ll build your presence. One-minute to three-minute videos. Hashtags. Story arcs. Redemption. Rage. Reality. The works.”
She looks at me with full PR predator energy, then smiles like a lioness.
“I’m going to make everyone who ever came after youdeeplyregret it.”
I take a sip of my drink. It tastes like nothing. “And you really think people want to hear what I have to say?”
“Oh honey,” she purrs. “Everyone loves an underdog. Everyone loves a comeback. And the world’s already flooded with fake perfection. But you? You’re real. You’ve got scars and backbone. You’ve gota story.”
She leans forward, all in.
“Let’s give them one they’ll never forget.”
