“Rose.”
She stopped. Not because she wanted to. Because Lizanne’s voice had that tone that stopped people, and Rose was not immune to it.
“If you walk out,” Lizanne said, “Pat calls three journalists she has on speed dial and tells them that you fabricated a fiancé to secure this contract. The fake registry, the brother in the photo, the wedding that never existed. All of it.” She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. “You’ll never work in this industry again.”
Rose stood in the doorway with her back to the room.
“I don’t want to do that,” Lizanne said. “I want to be clear about that. This is not my preference. But I need a solution because if I back out of this reality show, I’m screwed and you are the option available to me.”
Rose turned around.
Lizanne had stood up. She crossed the room and stopped a few feet away, and up close Rose could see what the makeup was covering: the shadows under her eyes, the tight set of her jaw, the evidence of several days of holding herself together through force of will alone.
She held out her hand. Not to shake. A gesture toward the sofa, an invitation to sit back down.
“Think about it practically. You need the money. I need a bride. Daisy needs stability. This solves all three.”
Rose looked at the outstretched hand and did not take it. “Don’t tell me what my daughter needs.”
Lizanne dropped her hand. “Fair. I apologize.”
The apology was unexpected enough that Rose’s anger lost some of its footing. She stood there for a moment, recalibrating.
“One year,” she said.
“One year.”
“And after that it’s done. Clean. No complications.”
“My lawyers will draft it. You can have your own review it. Every term in writing.”
Rose looked at her for a long moment. Lizanne returned the gaze steadily, the performance of composure holding by a thread that Rose could now see clearly.
“I need twenty-four hours,” Rose said.
“Alright.”
Rose picked up her bag. She walked to the door, and this time Lizanne didn’t stop her. The photographers surged when the gate opened, lenses everywhere, voices overlapping, and Rose walked through it with her eyes forward and her face giving nothing, all the way to her car.
She sat in the driver’s seat. Put both hands on the wheel.
Outside, someone was still shouting her name.
She thought about the debt. She thought about Daisy in that small bedroom, the nightlight, the faded rabbit. She thought about the look on Lizanne’s face when she’d saidI need a solution— not cold, exactly. Cornered. The look of someone who had run out of other options and knew it.
She started the engine.
She had twenty-four hours.
Chapter 13
Rose
She made it through the gate, past the three guys with long lenses who were already camping out like vultures and all the way to the end of the canyon before her hands started to rattle against the steering wheel.
She pulled over into a dirt turnout, jammed the car into park, and just gripped the wheel until her knuckles went white and the plastic groaned under her hands. Her old Honda felt like a tin can compared to the fortress she’d just left.
She’d actually threatened her.
