And the one left is theonlyone that matters.
Chapter Eighteen
Ava
The first message arrives on a Tuesday.
A DM to the studio’sInstagramaccount, from a handle I don’t recognize with a blue checkmark and four hundred thousand followers.
Hi Ava!
I’m a producer withSportsCenter Digital, and we’d love to chat about your connection to the Wildcats organization. No pressure, totally informal!
I read it twice. Then I archive it without responding.
The second arrives on Wednesday morning, to my personal email via the contact form on the studio website. A freelance journalist with a very respectful tone. Lots of words like ‘perspective,your side of the story,andbackground conversation only.’ I close the tab.
By Thursday, there are four more. Two onInstagram, one from a podcast I’ve never heard of, one from a blog that covers sports adjacent lifestyle content, which is apparently a category that exists. The podcast one is almost impressive in its audacity. They want me on for a full episode. An hour of airtime to talk about what it feels like to be, and I am quoting directly here, ‘The woman at the center of the Reece Steele situation.’
I delete that one so fast my thumb barely registers the motion.
Zoe watches me from the front desk with the careful expression of someone sitting on seventeen opinions she has decided, for once, to keep to herself.
“Say it,” I tell her, not looking up from the sketch I’m working on.
“I’m not saying anything.”
“You’re thinking loudly.”
“I think loudly all the time. You usually ignore it.” She spins her pen between two fingers. “You know they’re going to keep asking.”
“Then they’re going to keep not getting an answer.”
“Ava.”
“My name isn’t news, Zoe. My studio isn’t a story. And my personal life is not content.” I press the pencil harder into the page, refining the line I’m working on, the inner curve of a wing, a commission for a client I genuinely love, a memorial piece for her grandmother. I will not let the circus outside this building touch something this important. “I’m not engaging. Not now, not next week, notever. End of conversation.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then, with the specific diplomacy of someone choosing their battles, “The wing looks incredible.”
“Thank you.”
“The feather detail on the left side, especially.”
“Don’t oversell it.”
“I’m genuinely complimenting your work.”
“I know. It still sounds like you’re trying to soften me up.”
“Maybe I am. Maybe I also genuinely think you’re brilliant, and watching you get poked at by people who don’t know you makes me want to commit crimes.” She pauses. “Those two things can coexist.”
Something in my chest loosens. I set the pencil down and look at her properly. She’s wearing her hair in a new braid pattern today. It’s intricate, geometric, and spectacular, as everything Zoe does is when she bothers to try. She also looks genuinely worried, which she covers with her usual performance of absolute confidence in all situations.
“I’m fine,” I tell her.
“You’ve reorganized the ink bottles four times this week.”
“I have a system.”
