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"My communications team told me there was a photographer at the school," he says.

"They've been monitoring it since last night."

"Your communications team," I repeat.

Before he can answer, his phone vibrates in his hand. He glances at the screen, and I see the name before he silences it: Mom.

"How many times has she called?" I ask.

"Six," he says. "Sebastian's called four times. Richard Voss has called every hour since midnight, and my communications director has sent me a draft statement I haven't read." He drags a hand down his face.

"Blaire, I can't keep doing this. My mother saw a photograph of two boys who look just like me on a website she's never read in her life, and I've let her calls go to voicemail for twenty hours. If I pick up and tell her it's nothing, I'm lying to her. If I tell her the truth over the phone, she hears it while my advisors are already drafting statements about it. Neither is acceptable."

"This is what I was afraid of," I say. My voice shakes, and I hate it.

"This, right here. Their faces on the internet. Strangers outside their summer camp. Your mother, your brother, your lawyers, your communications team. I told you in Nantucket what would happen the moment your world found out about them, and it took six weeks."

"I didn't call the press," he says quietly.

"I know you didn't."

"Then—"

“—It doesn't matter," I tell him, and the words come out harder than I intend.

"Don't you understand? It doesn't matter who took the pictures or who sold them. It happened because of your name. Nobody would care about a woman and her kids in a park if you weren't standing in it."

He takes it without flinching, though I can see it land. For a moment, neither of us speaks. Upstairs, the movie swells into music, and one of the boys laughs.

Ross steps closer. His voice drops, low and steady, and I imagine it's the voice he uses in boardrooms when everything is falling apart and everyone is looking at him.

"Listen to me. I'll handle it. The statement, the photographers, the summer camp. I'll handle all of it. Nothing else is going to touch them."

It's meant to comfort me. I know that. But the words go through me like ice, because I've heard that tone before. It's the sound of a Kensington deciding. It's the sound of doors closing on rooms I'll never be allowed into, of people I've never met making choices about my children's safety, their names, and their futures, and handing me the results afterward.

"You'll handle it," I repeat.

"Blaire—"

"That's what I'm afraid of, Ross," I say.

He looks at me for a long moment, and I watch him hear it. Something crosses his face, not anger but recognition, and for a second I think he's going to argue. He doesn't.

"I have to go to London," he says instead.

"Tonight. I need to tell my mother and Sebastian myself, in person, before Voss and the lawyers get into a room and decide how the family should feel about this. They deserve to hear it from me as family first." He hesitates.

"I owe the boys that too."

The fight drains out of me all at once, and what's left is exhaustion.

"When will you be back?"

"As soon as I can," he says.

"A few days. I'll call you when I land."

"Okay," I tell him.