The Fundraiser
The headline hits before my coffee does.
GROUPIE LIBRARIAN? MAX DONOVAN’S LATEST FLING
There’s a photo—grainy, zoomed in, clearly taken outside Nora’s apartment. She’s walking to work, clutching her tote bag like a shield. Her expression is tired. Unaware. Vulnerable.
The article is trash. Speculation spun into innuendo, spliced with quotes from “anonymous insiders” and a blurry shot of us walking hand-in-hand. They paint her as a gold-digger with a library card. A fan who “played the long game.” One line actually reads:“Sources say she’s been spotted at multiple events—was this innocent flirting or strategic stalking?”
I nearly shatter the mug in my hand.
By the time I make it to the door of the library, a mob is already there.
Reporters. Photographers. Flashbulbs like landmines going off. And in the middle of it all—Nora.
She’s trying to hold it together. Chin high. Hands shaking just a little. She’s surrounded but not running. Brave, even now.
“Miss Davidson, are you and Max Donovan dating?”
“Is it true you followed the band on tour?”
“Were you hoping for a book deal or a baby?”
That last one makes my blood boil.
Before I can shove my way through, one of them actually tries to block her path—holds out a mic like a sword.
And Nora—sweet, sharp, lion-hearted Nora—glares at him like he’s a gnat and says, cool as frostbite, “If you want a quote, try reading a book. I recommend fiction—you’re clearly good at making things up.”
That’s my girl.
I barrel through the crowd, stepping between her and the next camera lens. “Back off,” I growl. “Now.”
A few shutter clicks follow, but my presence shuts most of them up.
I put a hand on her back, shielding her as we move inside. The library doors swing closed behind us like sanctuary gates.
Only when we’re safe in the quiet hush of the front desk do I feel her exhale.
“I’m so sorry,” I say immediately.
“It’s not your fault,” she says, voice steady but thin. “I just wish… dating you didn’t come with a full media circus.”
I flinch. Because yeah—it does. It always does.
“They’ll get bored,” I mutter. “They always do. I can make a statement. Set the record straight.”
Nora just nods, silent.
***
I’ve done a hundred press conferences in my life.
Album drops. Tour launches. Scandals I caused and a few I didn’t. I know the rules: smile enough to look human, deflect with charm, never admit too much, and for the love of god, don’t get angry.
But this one?
This one’s different.
