Not once.
I don’t give them anything.
No reaction.
No acknowledgment.
Nothing.
Instead—I glance at Sera.
She looks sad, concern pulling at her features over all the hate.
“If it makes you feel any better, baby, these aren’t all here for you. I’m pretty sure I recognized a few of them picketing Tom Cruise’s house over the whole Scientology thing.”
There’s tension in her shoulders, something tight behind her eyes, but she holds it together the way she always does.
Strong.
Quiet.
Unbreakable in ways she doesn’t even see.
I give her a small smile.
Just for her.
Then I drive forward.
They don’t matter.
Only she does.
It’s just past midday, my stomach is growling, and for a moment I feel like I’m home and free at my definitely-not-a-cult, anti-cult mob headquarters and studio.
The pool glints under the afternoon sun, water rippling softly, while security is everywhere—like we’ve got every mobster in L.A. swanning around. I don’t recognize half of them.
In the middle of it—
My family.
Sam leans back in one of the loungers, beer in hand, eyes already tracking us the second we step out.
Logan is mid-sentence about something, animated as always, until he cuts off when he sees us.
Mac straightens from where she’s sitting.
Seraphina stays close to my side, her shoulder brushing mine as we walk out.
I reach for her hand.
Not to hold it.
To take the photos.
She lets me.
I flip them once in my fingers, then hold them out.
