“How?” The word came out sharper than I intended. “By selling? By disappearing? This isn’t something you can control from the shadows, Cassian. This is my life. My work.”
His jaw flexed subtly. “I know.”
“Do you?” I stood, pacing toward the window, arms crossed over my chest. The walled garden outside looked serene, but it felt a lot like a cage now, beautiful and confining. “I’vespent years building this. Speaking at events, writing op-eds, convincing people that violence—any violence, even the kind dressed up as sport—is a choice we can reject. And now …”
Now I was the hypocrite. The woman who preached one thing and slept with the embodiment of another.
I turned back to him. He was still on the sofa, elbows on his knees, watching me without interruption. That patience, usually grounding, felt infuriating now—like he was waiting for me to come to a conclusion he’d already reached.
“What if I can’t fix this?” I asked quietly.
“You will.”
The certainty in his voice made something twist in my chest. “And if I have to choose?”
His gaze held mine. “Then choose.”
Simple. As if it were that easy.
I shook my head, grabbing my phone again. “I need to call Eleanor.”
He nodded. “I’ll give you space.”
He stood, pulled on his jeans, and left the room without another word, the door to the hallway clicking softly behind him.
I dialed Eleanor’s number. She answered on the second ring.
“Lia. Thank God. Have you seen the post?”
“Yes.” I kept my voice even, professional. “It’s a photo. Nothing more.”
She sighed. “It’s more than that. The reporter—Anna from the Post—called me this morning. She’s got records on Locke’s holdings. Preserves in New York, one in South Africa. Guided hunts. High-profile clients. She’s framing it as a conflict with our anti-violence stance.”
I closed my eyes. “It’s personal, Eleanor. Not professional.”
A pause. “Is it? You’re our face, Lia. Donors give because they trust you. If they think you’re compromising …”
“I’m not.”
Another sigh. “Thomas Price called. He’s pulling his pledge for the spring campaign unless you issue a statement distancing yourself.”
Thomas Price. Our biggest donor. Oil money turned philanthropy, the kind that came with strings.
My throat tightened. “Distancing how?”
“Publicly. Acknowledge the relationship if you must, but make it clear it doesn’t reflect on our work. Or end it.”
The words hung there, blunt and final.
I stared at the garden outside, the ivy twisting up the wall like it was trying to escape. “I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t take too long. Anna’s running the story tomorrow.”
We hung up.
I stood there for a long minute, phone in hand, the weight of it all settling like humidity—thick, inescapable.
Cassian reappeared in the doorway, a glass of water in hand. He offered it to me without comment.
