“We?” I glance at him.
He doesn’t blink. “We.”
For a moment, it’s tempting to let myself rest in that word. To just be held inside it. But reality doesn’t pause.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table. Another unknownnumber call. I ignore it. It buzzes again. Unknown again. Then my home phone rings.
Luke’s body shifts instantly, a protective reflex sharpening him into something dangerous.
I answer anyway. “Hello?”
Silence. Then a click, and the line goes dead. I stare at the receiver for a second longer than I should. Not because I’m scared. Because I’m calculating.
Luke watches my face. “Hang-up?”
“Yeah.” I put the receiver down slowly. “Not for the first time.”
He’s been trying to bait whoever it is into speaking, cursing into the silence as if sheer force could draw them out. But the calls keep coming—always from a blocked number, always hanging up just as I answer. Each ring slices through the quiet, a reminder that someone is out there, listening. Watching. Measuring my every move. I can feel their gaze, invisible yet constant, crawling across my skin. The intent is clear: to make me feel exposed, unsettled, and never truly alone.
I already feel that without the calls.
Luke shifts closer. “This isn’t just tabloids trying to get a word from you anymore, Andi. This is cold, calculated intimidation and harassment.”
“I know.”
He studies me like he’s trying to find where the damage is forming. “Tell me you’re not carrying this alone.”
I exhale slowly. “I’m not.” Not anymore.
But I don’t say that part out loud because I don’t want to sound like I’m begging for him to stay. I don’t want my love to sound like fear. He takes my hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing my knuckles one by one like it’s a vow he’s making without words.
I let my voice go quiet. “What do we do about the youth center?”
Luke’s eyes go cold. “We get ahead of it.”
That night, we call Pop, Mack, and the center's director. Not a dramatic conference call. Not a panic spiral. We are developing our own plan of attack, just like we would after studying an opponent in the ring.
The director, Ms. Hargrove, sounds exhausted when she answers. “Andi, I didn’t want you to hear this from the news.”
“Tell me,” I say.
There’s a pause, then the truth drops in my lap like a brick.
“We got a formal complaint,” she says. “Anonymous. It alleges you’re mentally unstable and unsafe aroundminors. It alleges you have ‘a history of violent delusion’ and ‘a pattern of manipulation.’ It alleges you’re using the center for publicity.”
My nails dig into my palm so hard it stings. Luke’s hand tightens around mine.
I keep my tone calm. “And what happens now?”
“We’re being pressured to suspend your access temporarily until a review is completed,” Ms. Hargrove admits. “I argued against it. I’m still arguing. But the board is nervous. The parents are calling nonstop.”
“Suspension,” I repeat softly, tasting the word. It tastes like gagging tape. “From my own youth center. Amazing.”
Luke leans closer. “Who’s pressuring you?”
Ms. Hargrove hesitates. “I can’t prove anything. But the calls… the language… it feels coordinated. Like someone gave them a script.”
Of course they did.
