SHE TRIED CALLING Raven seven times that afternoon.
All seven calls went to voicemail.
She texted:Please call me. I need to talk to you. It's important.
No response.
Raven’s curtains stayed closed. The cottage sat silent and dark, like it was holding its breath.
And by evening, the article had posted online.
Jeremy Stone's sympathetic piece on "The Real Raven: How a Broken Rockstar Found Redemption in a Small Village."
It painted Annabelle as a devoted teacher fighting to save her school. Raven as a wounded artist seeking refuge. The fundraiser as a genuine act of kindness rather than a publicity stunt.
It should have been exactly what Annabelle wanted.
Except for this paragraph, buried near the bottom:
"According to local teacher Annabelle Swift, Raven’s fierce commitment to saving the library stems from her own difficult childhood in the UK foster care system, where libraries served as her only refuge and safe space. 'Libraries were her safe space,' Swift explained in an interview this morning. 'When she heard ours might close, she couldn't not help. It was personal for her.' This revelation adds poignant context to the singer’s recent public struggles and offers a rare glimpse into the private pain that drove her away from the spotlight."
Annabelle read it three times, each time feeling sicker.
And at half past eight, there was a knock on her door.
Annabelle ran to answer it, hope and dread warring in her chest. "Raven, I'm so…"
Raven stood on the doorstep, phone in hand, her face pale and absolutely furious.
"Is this true?" Raven held up her phone, the article displayed on the screen. Her voice was dangerously quiet. "Did you tell them about the foster care?"
"I, um, yes, but I was trying to help…"
"Help?" The word came out like a slap. "You thought sharing my private history with a journalist wouldhelp?"
"I defended you! I told them the truth! They were saying horrible things about you, that you were using us for publicity, and I just wanted them to understand why you cared—"
"You told them MY truth," Raven said, her voice breaking. "Without asking me. You tried to fix things, but they're going to get worse now, Annabelle. So much worse. Do you understand that?"
"I didn't mean to…"
"I told you that in confidence," Raven cut her off. "In the middle of the night. I trusted you with the most painful part of my past, and you just… gave it away to make yourself feel better about defending me?"
"That's not what happened!"
"Isn't it?" Raven's eyes were bright with unshed tears, her jaw tight. "You're always trying to fix everything, Annabelle. Everyone. Every problem. But I didn't need you to fix this. I needed you to respect my privacy. I needed you to ask me first."
"Raven, please, can we just talk about this…"
But Raven was already turning away, stalking back toward her cottage, her shoulders rigid with anger and hurt.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Raven had been right about the village.
What had been charming, quaint, even, in that aggressively English way, was now under siege. Three more photographers had shown up overnight, camping out near the pub. She'd spotted at least two journalists lurking around Blossom's Café. Even Daisy the postwoman had been stopped on her rounds by someone asking questions.
It was exactly what Raven had feared would happen.
