“My impatient little vixen,” I tease.
This earns me a harder yank on my hair. "Luke," she warns me, and there's no doubt what she means. I can’t hold back my laugh this time.
I don’t put her down. Instead, I carry her into the house, up the stairs, and to the shower. Where I continue my assault on her body and senses in every conceivable way. Then to the bedroom, still covered with water droplets from the shower and smelling of her body wash. But we don’t make it to the bed. Thirty minutes later, we’re both fully sated and completely dehydrated, lying limp and lifeless in the bed.
For a moment, the world narrows to just the two of us, heat and laughter tangled up in the humid air. Yet as my breath slows, a stray sound from the street floats through the open window—a car idling without moving on the curb outside. Awareness prickles along my skin, a sudden reminder that peace here is always temporary. I glance at Andi, watch her lashes flutter on her cheek, so soft and unguarded in thiscocoon.
Downstairs, a cell phone buzzes three times and goes silent. I can't bring myself to move, reluctant to break the spell even as my mind tracks the time and the threat waiting beyond the walls. For now, I pull her closer, determined to let this tenderness ground us for a little longer, even as the familiar pulse of tension returns—a silent tick of the clock reminding me that danger never really sleeps.
“When are you marrying me, Andi?” I whisper to her.
She doesn't answer, and I look at her, concerned at her quietness, only to realize she's fallen asleep in my arms.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
ANDI
The interview airs at nine o’clock sharp.
By nine-oh-five, my phone begins vibrating. By nine-ten, the national networks have picked up the segment. By nine-fifteen, my name is trending.
Luke and I sit side by side on the couch, watching the replay of something that already feels like it belongs to someone else. On screen, I look steady. Controlled. Certain. I don’t see the nights I didn’t sleep or the way my hands trembled backstage. I just see a woman tellingthe truth.
When the program ends, Luke turns the television off and pulls me into his lap. He presses his forehead to mine and says quietly, “You were strong. No one watching that thinks you’re unstable.”
I want to believe him. I do. But strength doesn’t protect you from backlash. It just determines how hard you fall.
The house phone rings. Then my cell. Then the doorbell.
Luke moves toward the front window and parts the blinds slightly. “News vans,” he mutters. “Four of them so far.”
“I’m not doing another interview,” I say immediately.
“Good.”
The doorbell rings again, this time accompanied by a firm knock. Not frantic. Not aggressive. Just deliberate.
Luke checks the peephole before opening the door. A courier stands on the porch, holding a large overnight envelope. No camera crews swarm him. No one shouts questions. The man simply hands over the package, gets a signature, and leaves.
That unsettles me. The lack of chaos and the stealth of precision. Luke closes the door and studies the return address before handing it to me.
Department of Community Oversight.
My stomach drops before I even tear it open.
Inside is a formal notice printed on thick paper bearing the state seal. I read it once and then again more slowly, forcing myself not to skim.
The Morgan Youth Outreach Center is subject to immediate administrative review following concerns raised regarding financial governance and leadership suitability.
Pending review, Andi Morgan is advised to suspend direct contact with enrolled minors until further determination.
Failure to comply may result in the revocation of operating authorization.
I lower the paper carefully. “They’re not shutting it down,” I say.
“Not yet,” Luke answers as a way of warning.
The language is neutral. Professional. Almost polite. There is no accusation written outright. Just an implication.
