I’m learning quickly how it works. They use “concern” as their mask. Concern for the state. Concern for due process. Concern for “the children.”
That last one makes my teeth grind. Because they don’t mean the children who lived in that house. They mean the children at the youth center.
That’s the angle. The one that actually matters. The one that could take my work away from me, shut my mouth, and convince the public that I’m too unstable to be believed.
I’m sitting on the couch with Luke when the first “biographical exposé” hits the national afternoon programming. It’s presented like a serious report, with a serious anchor and serious music, as if the network is doing America a public service by warning them about me.
A montage plays. Photos of me at fifteen. Photos of me leaving the hospital. Photos of me at my father’s birthday party. A shot from outside my house that makes my skin crawl because I never approved it or posed for it.
Then the narrator’s tone shifts, gentle and pitying. “Andi Morgan, the troubled heiress…”
Troubled. Like I’m a feral dog.
The story frames my parents’ death as the beginning of my “unstable spiral.” It frames foster care as a gift I rejected. It frames the psychiatric hospital as proof that I’m unreliable. It frames my accusation as revenge born from mental illness.
Then the screen cuts to an interview with one of my former foster families. The one that gave me scars that I still hide without thinking. They sit in a tidy living room with an American flag in the corner and talk about how hard they “tried.”
They call me manipulative.
They call me violent.
They call me a liar.
A doctor appears next. Blurred slightly around the edges, like the network is trying to make him look cautious and ethical. He says just enough to poison the well without admitting anything concrete.
Luke’s body tightens beside me, like he’s holding himself down with sheer will. His jaw works. His hands curl. I can tell he wants to break the TV. I don’t. I’ve learned something about lies. They don’t die when you rage at them.
They die when you refuse to flinch.
I mute the volume and watch the visuals only.The “concerned” anchor. The sympathetic lighting. The careful editing.
The way they never say the word “rape” without turning it into “allegations.” The way they never say “foster children” without saying “claims.” And then, like a blade slid quietly under my ribs, they shifted to the youth center.
A split screen shows me walking into the building on one side and stock footage of children playing on the other.
“Questions are now being raised…”
Luke’s hand finds my thigh, gripping hard enough to ground me.
On the screen, a local parent appears—face blurred, voice distorted, as if the truth itself is something to be hidden.
“I’m not saying she did anything,” the parent says. “But she admitted she tried to kill a man. How can she be around minors?”
The words hang in the air, heavy and unyielding. I sit frozen, barely breathing, as the accusation settles over me. It isn’t really a question—it’s a verdict, delivered for anyone who needs a simple story to believe.
I know how this works. Repeat a lie often enough, and it becomes the truth for people who don’t want to look any deeper.
I unmute the TV just in time to hear the next blow: “…and sources say the youth center’s partnership agreements and volunteer access protocols are now under review.”
Beside me, Luke mutters a curse, his jaw tight with anger.
I force my voice to stay steady, even as my hands tremble in my lap. “That was fast.”
He looks at me like he wants to wrap me in his arms and hide me somewhere that doesn’t have television signals. “They’re going after the only thing you’ve built that isn’t money.”
“Because it’s the only thing that proves they’re wrong about what they’re calling me,” I say. My throat tightens, but I don’t let the emotion take the wheel. “If they can remove me from the youth center, they can say I’m dangerous. Unfit. A threat. And then everything I said becomes ‘the story of a crazy girl.’”
Luke’s gaze sharpens. “We’re not letting that happen.”
