He didn’t ask questions, didn’t try to fix it; he just stayed.
I didn’t expect to want him to, but the way his arms wrapped around me felt like he was shielding me from the world and every bad thing in it.
I’ve spent years keeping people at arm’s length, convincing myself I didn’t need anyone else to feel safe. When I told him what I planned to do to Luke Holloway’s image and he didn’t flinch, didn’t talk me out of it, something settled into place. He didn’t look at me like I was reckless or broken. He looked as if he understood.
That was enough to make me certain of one thing: he’s not going anywhere. It may be too early to call it forever, but for now, he’s mine. I’m his.
So, we spent the entire morning planning. Every detail laid out between sips of coffee, right at the kitchen counter. Not just what we’ll release, but how. What gets shown and what stays buried.
We’ll piece together his worst moments. The ones he thought would never see the light of day. We’ll blur every face except his, leaving no room for denial.
Tiernan will handle the distribution. He’ll push it to every press outlet, gossip site, and magazine that ever praised the actor, all at once. Leaving no trace of who sent it.
Hollywood is in mourning. Performative candlelight services. Tearful tributes. A whole legacy polished clean by death.
We’re going to reverse that narrative.
I can already see the headlines, the hashtags, the chaos. #LukeUncensored. #HollowayExposed. #LukeLeaks. I might even help them along. Let the world finally meet the man they’re grieving.
I’m running on caffeine, sugar, and something sharper than adrenaline. Purpose, maybe? Or spite. Either way, it keeps my hands steady as I open my laptop and pull up the editing software before I have time to second-guess myself.
The files load one by one. Luke’s face fills the screen, frozen mid-smile. The kind people used to call charming. Looks more like pure evil to me.
Locke stays close, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, giving me space but never leaving. He doesn’t ask what footage I’m using. Doesn’t warn me to slow down. He doesn’t push for control or soften the edges of what we’re about to do. He just watches, present and grounded, like he’s ready to catch me if I stumble, but trusting that I won’t.
We work for hours.
Cutting. Splicing. Muting audio where it doesn’t belong. I make sure Luke is unmistakable in every frame possible. His voice. His laugh. The way he looks at the camera, like he’s untouchable. I leave no room for doubt. No excuses. No plausible deniability.
There are moments when my chest tightens, when the familiar burn of nausea crawls up my throat. Scenes I’ve already seen but still don’t want to linger on. But this time, I don’t spiral. I don’t shut down. I don’t look away.
I control the footage now.
What once felt like a loaded gun pressed to my chest has become something else entirely. I get to decide what the world sees and what stays buried. I’m the one holding the gun now.
At some point, Locke glances over at me, his expression searching. I meet his gaze and give him a small nod. A promise, maybe. I’m still here. I’m not breaking.
The sun drifts lower outside the windows, painting the kitchen in warm light that feels at odds with what’s playing on my screen. When I finally lean back in my chair, my shoulders ache and my eyes burn, but the montage is complete.
It isn’t a highlight reel. It’s an unmasking.
I let the cursor hover over the send button for a moment. I know this is the point of no return. Sucking in a deep breath, I click it.
Luke Holloway is already dead, but his image is still alive and well. His name is still protecting the people who enabled him. Still teaching the world that men like him get remembered kindly if they disappear at the right time.
I refuse to let that be the story.
Chapter 38
LOCKE
She’s smiling again. Not a smile that looks happy or even relieved. A sharp, dangerous one, like she’s daring the world to take another swing at her.
I should focus on the risks. The digital trail we could leave behind, the enemies this could stir up. The way men like Luke always seem to have rot oozing from them, even from beyond the grave.
I don’t see any of it. All I can really see is her. That fire in her eyes. The one that dimmed, day by day, until I thought it might be gone for good.
If this goes sideways, I already know the outcome. I’m going down with her.
