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"Your security team should. The fact that they don't is concerning."

“I don’t have a security team. It’s just me and my business manager. He occasionally calls in specialists.”

We reached a small park. Empty playground equipment cast long shadows across patchy grass. Katherine sat on a swing, I remained standing.

"The blackmailer wants me to withdraw by start of production. That’s three weeks from yesterday."

"Twenty days."

"The film's called Passing Through Jordan. It's about a widowed factory owner during World War Two who converts her plant to support the war effort. Marcus Laughton plays James, a Tuskegee Airman who's grounded after being injured and gets assigned to help integrate her workforce."

Her voice carried passion now, the facade dropping completely.

"It's not just another period piece. It's about finding common ground through grief. My character, Constance, lost her husband at Pearl Harbor. James lost his best friend in a training accident that also injured him. They're both broken, both angry, both having to navigate a world that's changing faster than either of them can process."

"And the integration subplot?"

"That's what makes it powerful. Constance's workers are ready to walk out rather than work alongside Black workers. James is dealing with white managers who think the Tuskegee program was a mistake. They have to trust each other to make it work, even when everyone around them says they shouldn't."

She looked up at me. "Marcus and I have done three films together. We have this chemistry, this trust that translates on screen. The director said our scenes together are electric because we genuinely respect each other. That deepfake, those racist words..." Her voice cracked. "It would destroy everything the film stands for. Everything Marcus and I have built together."

"The timing's deliberate then."

"If that video drops before the start of production, the studio will panic, pull me from the film. They'll recast with someone safe, someone who won't risk controversy. The story will get watered down, sanitized."

"And if you withdraw voluntarily?"

"Same result, but at least I control the narrative. Say it's health issues or scheduling conflicts." She stood, brushed off her jeans. "Either way, this story doesn't get told the way it should be."

I studied her face in the fading light. No performance now, just raw honesty. This wasn't the Kit Lord I'd googled briefly before dinner, the one with the carefully managed public image. This was someone else. Someone real.

"Katherine." Her name came out without thinking.

She tilted her head. "Not Kit?"

"Kit's the Hollywood version. The brand. You're not performing right now, so you're Katherine."

A smile ghosted across her face. "My dad called me Katherine. Never Kit, never Katie. Said Katherine was a queen's name and I should wear it proudly."

"Smart man."

"He died when I was fifteen. Right before my career took off. Sometimes I wonder what he'd think of all this. The movies, the fame, the complete loss of privacy."

"He'd be proud of you fighting for this role. For understanding it's bigger than just another part."

"We should head back before they send a search party."

The walk back felt different. Comfortable silence instead of awkward quiet. Our shoulders bumped occasionally, but neither of us pulled away.

"Can you stop them?" she asked as we turned onto Jase's street. "The blackmailer?"

"I need more data. The RAT's sophisticated but not perfect. Everyone makes mistakes, leaves signatures. I'll find theirs."

"You sound certain."

"I spent twenty years hunting people through digital footprints. Nation-state actors, terrorist cells, criminal networks. One person making deepfakes? They'll slip up."

We reached the driveway. Through the window, I could see the kids clearing the table while Jase and Angelica loaded the dishwasher. Domestic chaos, but the comfortable kind that came from practice and love.