“Will happen regardless of what I do,” she cuts me off gently. “If I spin, they’ll eventually find out the truth and call me a liar. If I stay silent, they’ll fill in the gaps with whatever narrative is most damaging. The only way to actually control this is to…not. Let the chips fall where they may. As long as we’re good, my world keeps spinning.”
I stare at her, warmth expanding in my chest. This is the woman who, just weeks ago, was terrified of what the tabloids might say. Who built her entire existence around managing public perception. Who hid a relationship rather than face the messiness of real love.
And now she’s choosing truth. Choosing authenticity. Choosing us—out in the open, consequences be damned.
“You’re sure about this?” I ask, not because I doubt her, but because I need her to know I’ll support whatever she decides. “Because once you say it out loud, there’s no taking it back. Your whole life changes. My life changes. We become a story that other people get to have opinions about.”
“We’re already a story. We have been since those cameras caught us hugging on the balcony in New York.” She reaches for me, fingers curling into the front of my shirt. “The only question is whether we let other people write it, or we write it ourselves.”
“Then I’m with you.” I cover her hand with mine. “Whatever you need, however you want to handle this—I’m with you.”
“Even if it means your face is going to be everywhere? Even if people start digging into your past?”
The question lands heavier than she probably intends. My past. My father. The escort work that paid for years of legal bills. All of it waiting to be discovered by anyone with enough motivation to dig.
“Even then,” I say, and I mean it. “We’ll face it together.”
She leans in, pressing a soft kiss to my cheek, lingering there for a moment like she’s drawing strength from the contact. “It’s too early to say it, but you know what I want to say.”
“Who told you it’s too early to say it?”
“Cosmo, CosmoGirl, Vogue,and also that Disney Princess quiz I’ve taken about thirty times.”
“Well they don’t—wait, what? Thirty times? Why?” I squint at her, baffled.
“Because, I want Belle. I keep ending up as Rapunzel. It’s bullshit.”
The genuine anguish in her face makes her ten times more adorable than I can bear.
“You can be whatever princess you want. I’ll call you Belle. What prince do you think I’d be?”
“Beast, obviously.” She gestures to my whole frame. “You’re massive.”
“Well how about this? Beast loves Belle. And we can bring that into the real world whenever you’re ready. Just know when you say it, I’ll be ready to say it right back.”
Black Cat—well, Sylvester now—ruins our sweet moment, managing to smack Charlie’s arm and my elbow in one quick kitty-strike.
“Oh I’m sorry,” she coos in that ridiculous high-pitched voice people use with babies and animals. “I didn’t greet my kitty overlord this morning. Where are my manners? Good morning, handsome.” She scratches under his chin, earning an enthusiastic purr. “Did you have your breakfast yet? Has Taio given you your second breakfast?”
“Second?”
“Such a smart, handsome boy. Yes you are. Yes you are,” she continues.
The cat looks insufferably smug, as if he understands every word.
“Hey,” I mention, “I finally named him.”
“Oh?” Charlie’s hand pauses mid-scratch. Her voice has gone carefully neutral in a way that immediately makes me suspicious.
“Sylvester. You know, because I have a Tweety, so it seemed fitting?—”
“Sylvester,” she repeats slowly. A fleeting mix of mischief and sheepishness sweeps her face, like a child caught with one hand still in the cookie jar but not quite sorry about it.
“Yeah. It fits, right? A black cat, always scheming, probably plotting to eat a small yellow bird?—”
“Sylvester is a tuxedo cat.”
“And?”
