"Absolutely terrible," Raven agreed.
They sat like that for a moment, hands joined, and Raven felt some of the tension ease from her shoulders.
But then Annabelle's phone buzzed again, and she pulled away with an apologetic smile. "I really do need to finish this."
"Alright."
Raven picked up her own phone while Annabelle bent over her laptop, typing furiously.
The screen lit up with notifications. Messages from her manager. Texts from Henry. And several news alerts, all variations on the same theme:
"Raven's Secret Village Hideaway Exposed"
"Inside the Quiet Town Where Rockstar is Hiding"
"Mystery Woman Spotted With Raven—Is Love on the Cards?"
Raven's stomach dropped.
She scrolled through the articles quickly, her heart sinking with each headline. There were photos, grainy, taken from a distance, but clear enough. Her at the bake sale. Her walking through the village. Her and Annabelle together, heads bent close, laughing.
This was getting worse. And Blossom had mentioned the paparazzi at the café this morning, which meant they were already here, already circling.
Raven glanced at Annabelle, who was still focused on her laptop, brow furrowed in concentration as she typed. Her phone buzzed again, probably Gloria, and she let out a small, frustrated sigh.
She looked exhausted. Overwhelmed. Like she was already carrying more than she could handle.
Raven's jaw tightened.
She couldn't add to that. Couldn't dump this mess, the press, the speculation, the inevitable circus that followed hereverywhere, onto Annabelle's shoulders when she was already drowning in fundraiser chaos and school responsibilities and Gloria's endless demands.
No. She'd handle this herself. Keep it contained. Protect Annabelle from the worst of it. Which should be easy enough if Annabelle wasn’t on social media.
She'd keep her safe from all that, no matter what.
Raven deleted the notifications and set her phone aside.
"Everything okay?" Annabelle asked, glancing up.
"Yeah," Raven lied. "Everything's fine."
Chapter Twenty-Three
Annabelle had never quite accepted that she was not a superhero.
And superheroes are never too tired to save the world.
"Ms. Swift, can I be the tree?" asked Oliver Hutchins for the third time that morning.
"Ollie, we've been through this. You're the narrator. Trees don't have lines, my love."
"But I want to be a tree."
"The tree doesn't speak, love."
"Exactly." Oliver crossed his arms with the sort of determination only a seven-year-old could muster. "I don't want lines. I want to stand there and be leafy. My dog likes trees."
Annabelle pressed her fingers to her temples. Five days until the fundraiser. Five days until everything either came together beautifully or collapsed in spectacular fashion, and she was arguing about foliage.
