The room buzzed like a hive—cameras being set up, lights being adjusted, someone rolling out cables like we were filming a Netflix special. I sat stiffly in the tall director’s chair, hands folded in my lap, while two women I’d never met adjusted my hair for the third time and dabbed at my cheekbones with a sponge.
“This feels fake,” I muttered.
Lane glanced over from behind the camera. “You’re real. But even real things need a professional touch. Trust us. We’ve got this.”
I wasn’t sure who “we” was. All I knew was that Lane had flown in from New York, and Tristan had arranged it like it was no big deal—just another name in his contacts. Apparently, this was what PR looked like for people who lived in curated mansions and had stylists on speed dial.
“You ready?” the guy holding the mic asked, gently clipping it to my collar.
“Not really,” I admitted. But I looked toward the camera anyway.
Then Tristan showed up.
He didn’t say much—just leaned against the wall, watching like he was seeing something unfold that he already believed in. He gave me a small nod. One of those you're good kind of nods. I know this is his way of helping. His way of trying to get my back. It’s foreign and alien but to Tristan— this is his version of damage control and a clean up crew. I’m in their world now andmaybe taking a page out of ‘their’ playback is the way to fight back.
The red light on the camera blinked on.
I swallowed. My throat was dry, and the words we’d practiced were dancing just out of reach. But I didn’t want to read a script. I wanted this to feel like me.
“I’m not a headline. I’m not a rumor. I’m not who they portrayed me to be.”
My voice came out clearer than I expected. Stronger.
“They tried to erase me. They tried to break me. But I’m still here. And I’m not hiding anymore.”
The silence after I finished was thick, like everyone was holding their breath. Lane nodded once to the editor. Someone scribbled something down. I blinked against the bright light.
I felt raw. Exposed. But not in the awful way I used to.
In a real way.
We filmed a few more takes, shorter videos, different angles. One where I was asked to share something light. One where I told a tiny piece of the Ohio story—just a teaser. We weren’t diving into that mess yet, Lane said. That would come. This was the setup. The opening chapter.
By the time we wrapped, I was emotionally wrung out but buzzing. It was weird how empowering it felt to speak—to say things out loud I hadn’t even told myself properly.
Afterward, I climbed into my car, peeled off the boots Lane’s team had insisted I wear, and drove back toward Aunt Susan’s. I wasn’t hungry anymore. I told Tristan I had a headache and left. The sky was smeared with early sunset, soft lavender and streaks of firelight stretching across the windshield. The kind of sky that makes you feel small and a little brave.
At home, the wood stove was glowing. Aunt Susan had clearly just finished a shift—her coat was slung over the back of the dining chair, and her hair was clipped up messily. She wasstirring a pot of soup on the stove like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“There she is,” she said, smiling when I walked in. “How’d it go, superstar?”
I shrugged out of my jacket. “Kinda crazy. There were cameras and stylists and editors and hashtags. Lane made me feel like I was running for office or something.”
She chuckled. “Well, did you say what you wanted to say?”
“Yeah,” I said softly. “Yeah, I think I did.”
We sat down to a small dinner—nothing fancy, just grilled cheese and that soup—and I told her about Lane, about the shoot, about how it felt fake to have. Scripted, staged and curated videos for my socials. But I did trust Tristan and so I went with it.
And then I said something I hadn’t said to anyone.
“It’s good to be back. I don’t want to run again.”
Aunt Susan looked up from her mug of tea. Her eyes were warm and a little misty.
“I’m glad you stayed,” she said. “Because, Mr. Pickles and I would’ve gone, wherever you decided to go even back to Ohio if that’s what you wanted.”
I smiled.
