The line disconnects. I remain standing, one hand still resting on the desk, as if the meeting hasn’t actually ended.
My team is already executing our standard response protocol—context statements, quiet outreach, strategic silence. Nothing aggressive. Overcorrection validates the narrative.
I listen to the clip again. The office feels suddenly too quiet, the hum of the ventilation louder than it should be.
Something about it feels wrong to me. This isn't an attack from a rival or a journalist. It's family.
I replay Lindsay's recent schedule in my head. The calls she's missed. The messages she's filtered. The boundaries she's set—mostly on her own, at my encouragement but never my insistence.
I know I haven't tried to control her.
But perception doesn't care about accuracy.
Family narratives carry weight. Especially messy ones. Especially public ones.
I think about how easily this could escalate. More interviews. More "concern." More people framing protection as manipulation.
I think of Henry, absorbing fragments of adult conversations he shouldn’t have to interpret yet.
Of how easily concern becomes confusion when it isn’t framed carefully.
Of how easily a child learns who to trust, and who to discard.
The door to my office opens without warning, the heavy oak swinging wide.
Lindsay stands in the threshold, face tight.
Her usual sparkle seems dimmed, the rhinestones on her pink hoodie catching the afternoon light but somehow failing to shine with their typical defiance.
There's a tension in her shoulders I recognize—the same rigid control I use when managing crisis situations.
She crosses the room to me.
"Did you know ERS called me this morning?"
I set down the tablet I've been holding, giving her my full attention.
The clip has been playing on repeat in my mind for the past hour, dissecting every inflection, every calculated pause.
"I just learned that," I reply honestly, watching her face for tells.
She stops directly in front of my desk, arms folded across her chest in a gesture that is more defensive rather than defiant.
"Are you worried?" Her question is direct, her gaze even more so.
Those hazel eyes search my face with intensity. Looking for data points that will tell her what she needs to know.
I consider my response carefully, weighing each word.
The word worried isn’t accurate, but neither is calm.
"It's manageable," I say finally, my voice maintaining the neutral tone I've perfected for crisis management. "These narratives are predictable. Temporary. They follow patterns."
Lindsay's expression shifts, and I catch the subtle change. "That's not what I asked."
I move around the desk to meet her, eliminating the physical barrier between us even as I sense the emotional one growing.
"I'm not worried about the clip," I clarify. "I'm concerned about how it's being used."
