By eleven forty-five the auditorium looked like a shark tank with better lighting. Glass walls, platinum logo, rows of chairs full of people who made a living pretending they weren't entertained by blood. Hazel paced a rut into the backstage carpet, three phones buzzing in rotation like angry bees.
"Rules," she said, thrusting a tablet at me without breaking stride. "Smile three times, not four. Keep answers under twelve seconds. If someone shouts about the hotel, pivot to 'shared vision.' If Cross tries to own the room—let him. That's his job today."
"I can handle my half," I said, breathing slow, rolling my shoulders so the dress didn't fight me. Black, sharp neckline, hair pinned tight. No romance. Armor.
"You can handle everyone's half," Hazel said, softer. "But don't. Partners, remember?" She cut a look toward Damien.
He stood with a producer and two comms people, the calm center of the hurricane. Black suit, white shirt, no tie. He held a small stack of note cards he didn't need and a glass of water he wouldn't drink. He looked like a verdict.
"Ms. Voss?" Mariah, head of comms, appeared with a wire and a smile. "Mic time."
She clipped the pack at my waist and looped the tiny head near my collarbone. "Sound check," she said. "Count to five."
"One, two, three, four, five."
"Clean," she said, then looked between me and Damien. "We lead with the partnership language. Then Ms. Voss speaks. Questions after. If they go feral, we end at three."
"Not four," Hazel added. "Three is civilized. Four is chaos."
The stage manager lifted two fingers. "Two minutes."
Damien stepped beside me. We stood shoulder to shoulder, but he angled just one degree toward me, a subtle cue. Camera reads unity. My pulse settled—not because of him, I told myself, but because anything that looks like a plan is a sedative.
"You ready?" he asked.
"As I'll ever be," I said.
"Stay close when we walk," he said. "Saves us ten headlines."
"You mean it looks like we're sleeping together," I said, dry.
His mouth tipped a millimeter. "Exactly."
The curtain parted. Light hit like a slap. A hundred lenses blinked. The sound started low—murmur, shuffle, throat clears—then rose in clicks, shouts, the live-stream hum. We crossed to the podium at a measured pace. He placed one hand on the acrylic edge, just so, the other at his side. The crowd settled the way crowds do when they sense an apex predator on the mic.
"Good afternoon," he said, tone smooth as the stage. "RavenCorp is pleased to announce a strategic partnership with Voss Industries, represented today by Ms. Isla Voss. Our companies share a commitment to building long-term value for Ravenwood."
I stepped to the second mic, kept my hands loose. "We're aligning resources to move faster and build better," I said. "This is a vote of confidence in the city and in each other." Twelve seconds. Done.
"Questions," the moderator said.
Five hands shot up, then ten. The first reporter didn't wait for a nod. "Ms. Voss, is this partnership connected to the end of your engagement to—"
"Business questions," the moderator warned.
The reporter's mouth kept going. Of course it did.
Before I could decide whether to ignore him or bury him politely, the room shifted. Heads turned toward the side door. A man in a charcoal suit walked down the aisle like a court summons growing legs.
Adrian.
Hazel swore under her breath somewhere behind the curtain. The cameras found him before security did. He mounted the steps with the smooth, practiced grace of someone who had rehearsed walking into other people's moments.
"Isla," he said into the mic the moderator made the mistake of leaving unattended, "shall we tell them why you're really here?"
The room went tight and quiet in a way that made every sound a cut. I kept my face where it belonged—calm, slightly bored. "Hello, Adrian," I said. "Nice of you to join us."
"Is it?" he asked, head tipped, smile not friendly at all. "Because three days ago you were supposed to be standing next to me."
I didn't look at Damien. I didn't need to. I felt his presence like a wall at my back. "Plans change," I said. "Manners don't. You're interrupting a scheduled event."
He cut me a look full of old knowledge and new anger. "Forgive me if I'm confused," he said, projecting like a pro. "It's hard to keep up. One minute you're my bride, the next you're… what? His press release?"
The crowd made the sound crowds make when they smell meat. Someone whispered "fiancée?" too loudly. Another whispered "rebound" like a prayer.
"Blackwell," Damien said, voice even, not loud, but the room leaned into it anyway, "this is neither your time nor your stage."
Adrian didn't look at him. He kept his eyes on me. That was the only smart thing he did. "Tell them," he said, smiling. "Tell them how you filed a partnership the same morning you threw away a wedding. Tell them it's not revenge."
"If you have questions about my personal life," I said, "you should have considered that before a hotel suite made international news."
A ripple, then a wave, then a hiss from someone who enjoyed good television. Adrian's jaw clicked. Two security guards inched closer to the steps, slow enough not to show on camera.
"This is business," he said too quickly.
"This is business," I agreed, calm as a knife. "Yours is over there." I nodded at the exit. "Ours is here."
He took a breath to say something he would regret. Damien didn't move, but he did shift one degree—closer to me, wider at the shoulders, a wall you don't notice until you run into it. The posture said: try it.
Adrian's smile flattened. "He's using you," he said, lower now, steel under silk. "When he's done, you'll be another headline he forgets."
"And you didn't?" I asked.
That hit. He stepped closer to the podium edge, wrong move. The camera angle made him look like he was crowding me. He was. I didn't back up. I didn't give him the space. People in the front row held their breath.
"Enough," the moderator said, weakly.
Adrian laughed as if this were all beneath him and also the most important thing in his life. "Enjoy your moment, Isla. He doesn't keep things he can't control."
"I don't either," I said.
Silence. Even the cameras sounded quieter.
I turned back to the microphones. "As I was saying," I began, and that's when Damien did it.
He slid his hand to my waist—possessive but not crushing—and kissed me. Not a polite stage peck. Not a fake brush of lips. Warm, steady contact that lasted a clean two seconds past safe. The room detonated—light, clicks, gasps. Somewhere a producer forgot to breathe. Hazel whispered something that sounded like oh my God and thank you at once.
My brain split in two. One half watched the optics: angle, hand placement, the way my lashes dropped before I opened my eyes. The other half registered heat. Real heat. Then it was over and he was where he'd been, expression reset, hand gone.
Adrian was jade-green under the lights. "You're making a fool of yourself," he snapped, projecting again, working the room because that's what he knows. "Congratulations, Isla. You've traded a marriage for a PR stunt."
"You traded a marriage for a hotel room," I said, and that was that.
Something broke in him, a thin sound only a few of us heard. He recovered with a tight smile that didn't reach anything human and turned on his heel. Cameras chased him off the stage like dogs after a wounded thing.
Noise rushed back in. The moderator tried to corral it. Reporters shouted questions that were all the same question in different suits. Damien lifted a hand and the room obeyed out of habit or biology.
"Our partnership is both professional and personal," he said, tone even, rhythm unhurried. "We'll discuss business today. The rest will be clear in due time."
I leaned into my mic. "Statement at four," I said. "Thank you."
We left while they were still deciding what to yell next. The curtain fell. The sound dulled to a manageable roar. Hazel barreled into me, grabbed my elbows, and shook me once like you do when you're both thrilled and terrified.
"You," she said, eyes shining, "were a machine with lip gloss."
"I didn't plan the lip gloss," I said, and stole a breath.
"Neither did he," she said, cutting a look at Damien. "Or did you, Mr. Cross? Did you storyboard that kiss, or are you capable of surprise?"
He ignored the bait. "War room," he said. "Now."
We moved down the corridor, past interns with armfuls of statements, past security with faces like locked doors. My legs felt steady. My blood felt hot. I told myself it was the lights, the noise, the power of choosing the line and sticking it. I told myself it wasn't the kiss.
Mariah held the war room door open with her hip, eyes glued to a screen. "We're trending one, two, and three," she reported as we filed in. "#PublicShowdown is the umbrella. #CrossVoss and #AdrianMeltdown are splitting the audience."
"Sentiment?" Damien asked.
"Sixty-eight positive, nineteen neutral, thirteen negative," she said, fingers flying. "The kiss is polling better than the partnership. Not a shock. But the cutaway to Adrian's face is outperforming both."
"Of course it is," Hazel said, dropping into a chair. "The city loves a villain who writes his own lines."
"Blackwell release in three, two…" Mariah snapped, then punched a key. The text filled the main screen.
BLACKWELL INDUSTRIES EXPRESSES CONCERN OVER TODAY'S DISPLAY; REAFFIRMS COMMITMENT TO STABILITY AND GOOD GOVERNANCE. Paragraphs of carefully ironed language followed, plus a last line designed to irritate me on a cellular level: We will take appropriate legal steps to protect confidential information shared in good faith during prior merger discussions.
"They're hinting you stole proprietary data," Hazel said. "Classic muddy-the-water."
"They're hinting I'm impulsive," I said. "They're not wrong about the impulse. They're wrong about who aimed it."
"Response?" Mariah asked, already poised.
"Short," I said. "We build, we don't beg."
She smiled without looking up. "That fits on a shirt."
"Put it on a lower third instead," Hazel said. "One live hit. Anya Rhodes."
"I'll call her producer," Mariah said. "Time?"
"Top of the hour," Damien answered without checking a watch. He looked at me. "You want it?"
"Yes," I said, and heard the quiet hunger in my voice. "I'm not hiding behind a release."
A junior analyst stuck his head in. "Preservation notice from Blackwell legal just hit our inbox," he said. "They want all communications between Ms. Voss and Mr. Cross from the last six months."
"So they can imply we planned this before the breakup," Hazel said.
"Send it to legal," Damien told Mariah, then to me: "Walk."
We stepped into the hall. The door eased shut behind us. For a second, there was only recycled air and the floaty feeling that follows adrenaline when your brain realizes your body is still upright.
"You don't have to do the hit," he said.
"I want the hit," I said. "Anya is tough but honest. She'll let me finish a sentence."
He studied me like a problem set that just became interesting. "Fine. But if she turns it, I cut the feed."
"You do and I'll finish the sentence on the sidewalk," I said. He almost smiled. Almost.
In the elevator, a strand of hair pulled loose at my temple. I reached for it, but his hand was faster, smoothing it back behind my ear with a quick, efficient touch that felt impersonal and not at all like that. My skin recorded it anyway.
"Optics," he said.
"Sure," I said, and watched our reflections hold a straight line while my pulse tried not to.
The car door shut on a fresh wave of cameras. Someone shouted a question about pregnancy because there's always one. Another stumbled backward and clipped my hip with a shoulder. I pitched—only a little—but Damien's arm was there before gravity could finish, solid at my waist, turning me behind his body so the hit landed on him instead.
"That's enough," he told the scrum. Not loud. Final.
Security bought us two feet of air. Two feet was all we needed. We slid into the car and left the noise to feed on itself.
"Thank you," I said, eyes on the glass.
"Insurance," he said. "I don't lose assets to clumsy men."
I almost laughed. "I'm an asset now?"
"You're a partner," he said, and for some reason that landed softer.
The studio was six blocks away. Hazel briefed me in the elevator like a coach at halftime. "Lead with partnership, pivot to stability, land on the line. If she asks about the hotel, say, 'We don't litigate private choices in public.' If she asks about the kiss—"
"I'll say lighting makes everything look louder," I said. "We planned the business. The cameras filmed the rest."
Hazel grinned. "Kill them gently."
We stepped into the lights.
Backstage felt like a train platform after the express blew through—wind, noise, papers flapping, everyone pretending they hadn't just seen a public execution. Hazel stuck a bottle of water in my hand and squeezed my wrist hard enough to register as a hug.
"You were surgical," she said. "No tremor. Twelve‑second answers. The kill shot was the hotel line. I'm framing it."
Mariah jogged up, tablet tucked to her chest. "We're already cutting the sizzle. Sentiment is spiking. The kiss is the headliner, but Adrian's face is the meme."
"Of course it is," Hazel said, delighted. "He thought he was the hunter."
"Blackwell's statement in ten," Mariah added, and peeled away toward the comms table.
I took a breath and let it out slow. Damien was two steps away talking to legal, posture unchanged, suit unruffled, like he did that sort of thing between emails. When he looked over, his eyes checked my face the way a pilot scans instruments—calm, methodical, not missing a dial.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Adrenaline says yes, shoes say no," I said.
"Sit for two minutes," he told Hazel without taking his eyes off me.
"I don't sit," I said.
He tipped his head, faintly. "Right. Then walk with me."
We pushed through a side door into a corridor cooler and quieter than backstage. Concrete, exit signs, the steady hum of the building's lungs. The door closed and the roar dimmed to a muffled sea.
"I know what you're going to say," I said. "The kiss was necessary."
"It was," he said.
"You timed it," I said. "There was a beat between the moderator and my line."
"I saw two angles on Adrian and a lens on row three," he said like he was reciting a grocery list. "You were in light. It read as inevitable."
I snorted. "That a compliment?"
"It's a result," he said. Then, softer, "And you handled it."
Handled. Not enjoyed. Not hated. A safe word that left room for all the messy ones.
We cut left into a glass‑walled conference room that had been converted into a temporary war room. Screens, open laptops, charging cords, three different coffee setups. Mariah waved us over and blew the main screen up.
"Okay," she said, breathless and professional. "We've captured one, two, three. #PublicShowdown, #CrossVoss, #AdrianMeltdown. Positive sentiment sixty‑eight and rising. People are calling you 'ice spine' and 'boardroom bride.'"
"Love the first, hate the second," Hazel said, sliding into a chair and already editing a caption. "No 'bride' anything. We're not handing them the narrative bow."
"Copy," Mariah said. "Here's Blackwell's." She tapped. The release filled the screen: regret, concern, values, stability. Final line: We will take appropriate legal steps to protect confidential information shared in good faith during prior merger discussions.
"Hello, non‑threatening threat," Hazel said. "Drink."
"Draft me something short," I said. "We build, we don't beg."
Mariah grinned without looking up. "Already templated. With or without your name?"
"With," I said. "Send in ten, not now. Let their line float alone for nine."
A junior lawyer poked his head in like a meerkat. "Preservation notice just landed. They want emails, texts, everything between Ms. Voss and Mr. Cross."
"So they can imply coordination before the breakup," Damien said. "Legal will reply. We over‑comply on process and under‑feed on drama."
Hazel's phone buzzed. She looked down, smiled like a cat. "Anya Rhodes wants you at two‑thirty. Live. Solo. She promises no panel, no gotchas."
"Take it," I said. "Fifteen minutes, not twenty. I want the last three for our statement drop."
Mariah thumbed a timer into her tablet. "We'll feed your line to the lower third. Keep your ending clean so it rides."
Damien's phone buzzed. He glanced once. "Car pulls to the service entrance in sixty seconds," he said. "We go out the back, not through the lobby."
"Smart," Hazel said, popping up again. "The lobby is already feral."
We moved. Security fell in around us—two in front, two behind—like parentheses. The service corridor smelled like cold metal and coffee grounds. At the end, the door clicked open to a loading bay where the air had edge and the light was honest.
And then the paparazzi found us anyway.
They came around the corner fast, a knot of bodies and camera straps, the sound like a hundred insects in a jar. The first two hit the security line and stopped, the third didn't see it, and the fourth—a kid with brand‑new sneakers and a borrowed press badge—backed into me, hard.
It wasn't dramatic. It didn't need to be. The metal edge of his bag hit my hip, my heel slid a fraction, gravity started its little trick.
Damien's hand found my waist and pulled me out of the fall like he'd rehearsed it. His body moved between mine and the crowd in one smooth step, his other arm coming up, palm open.
"That's enough," he said. He didn't raise his voice. It cut anyway.
The kid blanched. "S‑sorry, Ms. Voss—"
"I'm fine," I said, checking my ankle by shifting my weight. Fine. "No harm."
Hazel's eyes were murder‑bright. "If you broke her, I swear—"
"It's fine," I repeated, to her this time. But my body heard the message my mouth didn't say—caught, shielded, safe—and filed it somewhere I wasn't ready to look at.
We slid into the car. The door thumped, noise muffled, air cool. Security closed us in and the city shrank to a moving frame.
"Thank you," I said, still watching the little square of the world through tinted glass.
"Insurance," he said. "I don't lose partners to avoidable collisions."
"Partners," I echoed, and let the word sit in the car for a second. It didn't clang.
Hazel twisted around from the front seat. "Okay, game plan for Anya: lead with partnership, pivot to stability, land on the line. If she presses on the kiss—"
"The lighting made it louder," I said. "The business was planned, the cameras filmed the rest."
"And if she tries to pry about the hotel?"
"We don't litigate private choices in public," I said. "We show people the work."
Hazel grinned. "You can do this half‑asleep."
"I'd rather not," I said. "I like my sentences finished."
"Good," Damien said. "Finish them. If she interrupts, I cut the feed."
"You do and I finish it on the sidewalk," I said. He didn't disagree.
The studio was five blocks away. By the time we hit the curb, a runner had the door propped, a producer had a clipboard, and a stylist with a lint roller had a professional religion about shoulders. We moved as one organism—security, PR, me, Damien—with Hazel narrating like a sports commentator.
"Mic in three, seat at two‑fifty, water left, eyes center lens, do not—repeat—do not look at the social monitor," she said, handing me a clear lip balm. "That one. Any color looks like intent."
I took the balm, handed it back after one swipe. "How many smiles?"
"Two," she said. "Third one is for the end. Not teeth. Glint."
"Copy."
Anya Rhodes met us at the door to Studio B. She had the face of a woman who could sell a scandal and make your grandmother approve. "We'll go tough but clean," she said, her grip firm, eyes sharp. "No panels, no ambushes."
"Good," I said. "I brought answers, not fireworks."
She smiled like she enjoyed an interviewee who didn't beg. "Three minutes to air."
The chair was a little too tall and a little too narrow, like all TV chairs. The mic was warm from the last segment. The earpiece whispered numbers, then weather, then the producer's voice: "Live in ten." The studio lights came up, hot on my forehead, cool on my palms. Across the floor, just off camera, Damien stood with his arms folded, expression set to unreadable, attention pinned to me. Hazel hovered beside him, head tilt calibrated to don't mess with my girl.
"Isla Voss," Anya said into the camera with that honey‑over‑steel tone, "has turned today's business slate upside down. She joins us now."
"Thanks for having me," I said.
"Let's start with what everyone just saw: you onstage with Damien Cross—and a kiss," she said, clean, crisp. "Is this a business alignment dressed like a romance, or are you actually engaged?"
"We signed a partnership," I said. "If we'd signed it on a table, no one would call it a romance. We signed it on a stage. Same contract. Louder lighting."
"So that kiss?" she pressed.
I let a beat happen, then gave the smallest possible smile. "We don't rehearse chemistry. We rehearse strategy. Today went according to plan."
"Adrian Blackwell says this is retaliation," Anya said. "Your response?"
"I'm not walking backward to make anyone comfortable," I said. "In this city, moving forward looks like retaliation if you're standing still."
She didn't hide her approval. "Investors are anxious about stability. Should they be?"
"I am the stability," I said simply. "We build. We don't beg."
She shifted. "There are rumors about your past—adoption, trust paperwork, gaps. Does today make you a bigger target?"
"Every woman with power has a target on her back," I said. "The solution isn't to shrink. It's to aim."
From the corner of my eye I saw Hazel's shoulders drop a fraction: a silent hell yes. Damien didn't move. He didn't need to. His attention felt like a hand on my spine, keeping me straight without touching me.
"Last question," Anya said. "If Adrian challenges you in court over 'confidential information,' will you fight it publicly?"
"We don't fight invented problems," I said. "We do the work. If he wants a courtroom, he can explain to a judge why he brought personal issues to a business stage."
The red light blinked off. The earpiece said, "Clear." Anya squeezed my hand again. "You'll be clipped six ways to Sunday," she said. "Nice job."
"Thank you," I said, and the thanks wasn't just for the compliment. It was for the clean hit, the finished sentences, the lack of shouting.
We were halfway to the door when a page hustled up with an envelope. "This came to reception," she said. "For Ms. Voss."
Security moved to intercept, but I lifted a hand. "It's fine." The paper was plain. My name in block letters. Inside: a photocopy of an old ledger page. Discretionary transfer — Voss Family Trust — orphanage fund. A date eighteen years ago. A thin pen stroke highlighting a memo: Placement settlement — I.V.
My stomach dropped one inch. Then my phone buzzed. Unknown number: Stop playing with wolves you don't know. Ask Cross what happened the night your father changed his will.
I looked up. Damien was already watching my face like it was a monitor. I handed him the page, then tilted the phone so he could read the text. Nothing moved in his expression; something locked behind it.
"We're done here," he told security, voice steady. "Office. Now."
Hazel fell in beside me, whispering, "Do I need to start threatening ghosts?"
"Not yet," I said, tucking the photocopy back into the envelope like it had edges. "But keep the list handy."
We stepped into the hallway. The studio noise faded, replaced by the hollow echo of our footsteps. Somewhere above us, the city kept talking. Somewhere across the river, Adrian was probably drafting another statement with a lawyer who billed by the ounce of bile.
In the car, rain started—light at first, then harder, a clean silver against the glass. I held the envelope in my lap like it might jump.
"What happened the night my father changed his will?" I asked, because the text had already taken the question hostage.
Damien looked ahead. "Upstairs," he said. "Not here."
"Is it bad?" Hazel asked. For once, no edge, just worry.
"It's complicated," he said. That was worse than bad.
The elevator climbed fast, smooth, soundless. The mirrored panel gave me a woman who looked collected, and eyes that weren't. Damien's reflection was a straight line; Hazel bounced on the balls of her feet like she was warming up for a fight.
His office was all glass and clean lines. The door shut behind us with a hush that sounded like privacy. He set the envelope on his desk and leaned his palms on the wood, then lifted his gaze to mine.
"It wasn't just a change," he said, voice low, clean of drama. "It was a reversal. And the man who couriered the paperwork that night didn't work for your family."
"Who did he work for?" I asked, even though my bones already knew.
"Blackwell," he said.
There it was. A word like a click. History slotting into a new shape.
I didn't sit. I didn't sway. I slid the envelope into my bag like I was sheathing a blade. "Then the next time Adrian walks onto my stage," I said, "I want him to bring a lawyer and a seatbelt."
Something flickered at the corner of Damien's mouth—approval, maybe. Or relief that I didn't fold.
"Now you sound like me," he said.
"Temporary condition," I answered. "Don't get attached."
He stepped closer. Not touching, close. The nick along his jaw—shallow, precise—caught the office light.
"You did well," he said.
"I know," I said. And for the first time that day, I felt the we in the room as something other than choreography.
Rain hammered the glass. The city blurred to silver. Down below, headlines marched; across the river, a family of wolves bared their teeth in a law office with too many decanters. I checked my phone. The timer Mariah set for the statement ticked down: 00:02:18.
"Two minutes," I said.
"Plenty," he said.
And for once, I believed him.
Mariah's countdown hit sixty seconds as we stood by the window, rain turning the city to chrome. Hazel slipped in with two phones stacked and a smile you could mount on a wall.
"Copy locked," she said. "Your line in headline position, Damien's in slot two. We seed to six outlets at once—no exclusives, no favoritism. Time it on my mark."
"Do it," I said.
She nodded to Mariah through the open door. Somewhere down the hall, keys clacked in short, deadly bursts. Damien checked nothing and still looked like a man who had checked everything.
Thirty seconds.
My screen lit with blue dots—board members, cousins who only text when newspapers say my name, a lawyer who likes to begin emails with per my last email. I ignored them. Hazel would triage. That was why God invented Hazels.
Twenty seconds.
Damien's gaze moved from the glass to me. "You'll get a call from Moira," he said, naming my aunt the way a surgeon names a complication. "Let Hazel take it."
"Already routing," Hazel said, thumbs a blur. "Also, Adrian just posted a photo of the podium. Empty. Caption says, Some people need stages to feel real."
"Cute," I said. "Some people need hotel keycards to feel alive."
"Please don't tweet that," Hazel said, which meant she wanted to.
Ten.
"Ready?" Mariah called.
"Send," I said.
A heartbeat later my line—We build, we don't beg—went out over the city like a chime you feel in your teeth. The follow‑ups were clean: timelines, bullet points, zero adjectives. RavenCorp's statement piggybacked: measured, cool, undebatable. Screens in the war room lit up: reshared, clipped, quoted as if it had been a line in an old play people were happy to hear again.
My phone buzzed. Aunt Moira: Call me now. Hazel slid the notification away with one precise swipe, then silenced the thread entirely.
"You're saving my blood pressure," I told her.
"It's a full‑time job," she said. "Benefits are terrible."
Mariah stuck her head in. "Numbers are clean. #WeBuildWeDontBeg is climbing. Blackwell tried to toss #VossVendetta into the stream, but it's not catching."
"Because it's lazy," Hazel said. "And because you can't sell 'vendetta' when the other side looks competent."
"Studio just pinged," Mariah added. "Anya wants a follow‑up Q&A next week."
"Schedule," Damien said, before I could. "We'll see where the board noise sits."
My email chimed. Board Chair: Proud of your poise today. Let's discuss at 8 a.m. Translation: good show, we still want to count the silverware. Another ping: Sofia, the name alone like a cold finger. No subject. I didn't open it. Hazel did and read as far as I'm worried about you, then closed it and archived it into a folder labeled Later/Trash.
"Bless you," I said.
"Spiritual service," she said.
The door cracked and a security lead leaned in. "All clear in the lobby. The crowd is thinning. We can route Ms. Voss to a private exit if desired."
"I desire," Hazel said.
"Not yet," Damien said, still watching the rain. "Give it fifteen. Let the statement settle."
He wasn't wrong. The storm needed time to reshape. Fast exits look like retreats; controlled pauses look like choreography. I took a long breath, the first one that didn't feel like a pressurized canister.
My phone buzzed again with a name that made my ribs tighten: Liam Voss Foundation—Trustee Office. The preview line read: Regarding historical disbursements. The ledger page in my bag felt heavier.
"Don't," Damien said, quiet.
"I'm not," I said, and didn't move.
We let silence be part of the plan for sixty seconds. Outside, the rain softened from applause to whisper. The skyline emerged in layered grays. The RAVEN letters across the river glowed like they were smug about something. Fine. They could have that.
"Okay," Hazel said at last, reading a dashboard only she could see. "We pivot. We do a clean exit. And we call it a day before my adrenal glands unionize."
We moved toward the door. Damien reached for the handle, then paused. "One more thing," he said, eyes on mine. "Anya's last question—the target on your back. It won't shrink. If anything, it expands."
"I know," I said. "I'm not made of glass."
"That's not the point." He hesitated—fractional, rare. "If they aim at you, they aim at me. That's the deal."
Something in my chest, wired too tight since morning, loosened one click. "Understood," I said. Then, because truth and tactics sometimes share a seat, "Same the other way."
A knock cut the beat. Mariah slipped back in, hugging the tablet like a prize. "Quick heads‑up: a leak claims you were seen at the Ravenwood Club yesterday with Mr. Cross."
"We were," I said.
"Right," she said, unfazed. "So if they try to paint 'months‑long conspiracy,' we anchor with timelines. You met in public, signed today, cameras tomorrow. Clean."
"Let them bark," Hazel said. "We already ate."
We took a service elevator to a quieter floor and cut through a corridor that smelled like printer ink and carpet glue. At a side exit, a guard glanced out and held up two fingers: two paparazzi, not twenty. Manageable. The car was already at the curb, door open, engine a steady purr.
As I stepped into the threshold, Damien's hand lifted a fraction—an unconscious echo of earlier, as if ready to steady me again even on flat ground. He didn't touch me. He didn't need to. My body registered the possibility and—traitorously—relaxed.
We got in. The door closed. The city turned back into a movie, and I was in the quiet part between scenes.
Hazel took a breath like she'd been submerged. "You just survived your first full‑contact day as Half of The Thing," she said. "How do you feel?"
"Hungry," I said.
She cackled. "Chef's kiss. I'll get us food that tastes like salt and victory."
My phone lit with a text from Anya: Great lines today. If you ever get bored running empires, come cohost. I sent a thank‑you emoji that looked like prayer hands and also like a high‑five, because ambiguity keeps friendships alive.
Damien's screen glowed faintly in the low light. Without looking over, I could tell he was clearing roads I didn't see—calls to legal, instructions to security, calendar edits that would let tomorrow be choreographed down to the breath.
We passed the river. RAVEN slid by on our left, VOSS on our right—two proper nouns pretending they were just lights.
"Tomorrow," Damien said, still not looking up, "the gala. Six‑thirty arrival. We walk the carpet once, we stop twice, we speak zero. You stand right. I stand left. Hands—"
"At my waist if a camera is too close, not otherwise," I finished. "Yes. We practiced today."
"Good," he said. A pause. "You did more than practice."
I looked out at the rain‑washed city and allowed myself half a second of vanity. "I know."
We turned into my building's underground garage. Security met us at the elevator and notched into formation again. When the doors slid shut, Hazel's shoulders dropped two inches.
"I'll sweep your apartment," she said, flicking into another role. "No flowers from mysterious admirers, no envelopes from orphans‑turned‑blackmailers."
"Please throw out anything scented like peonies," I said. "I'm developing an allergy to symbolism."
The doors opened on my floor. The hallway was quiet. The world, for a moment, was just carpet, light, and the smooth sound of expensive keys. Damien stopped one step shy of my door like an invisible line had been painted there.
"This is the part," he said, "where good strategy says we say goodnight and don't give cameras a second‑angle story."
I leaned against the door, turned the key. The bolts slid with their familiar, expensive hiss. "Good strategy is boring," I said.
"Effective," he corrected.
"Right," I said. "Effective."
For a second, we just looked at each other. Then he tipped his head—not quite a bow, more like an acknowledgment that today had been a chessboard and I had not only kept up, I had taken a queen and three pawns.
"Get some sleep," he said.
"Tell the city to stop texting me," I said.
"I'll add it to the agenda," he said, and the corner of his mouth moved like a secret.
Hazel ushered me inside with a gentle shove. "We'll debrief in the morning," she said to Damien.
"We already are," he said, and left, the door shutting on a soft, final click.
My apartment smelled like lemon and new paper. Hazel did a quick sweep like she was clearing a stage. "You need anything?" she asked.
"A shower," I said. "And a different spine."
"You have the right one," she said, and kissed my cheek the way sisters do. "I'll be six doors down if the city catches fire."
"It's raining," I said. "We're safe."
She snorted. "You don't know Ravenwood rain," and was gone.
I dropped my bag on the console, pulled the ledger copy out like it could bite, and laid it flat. Discretionary transfer — Voss Family Trust — orphanage fund — Placement settlement — I.V. The letters looked like they'd been written for someone else and accidentally mailed to me. I let the hot water beat on my shoulders until my skin felt sober. When I came back, the city was a pale reflection in my windows.
My phone buzzed once on the table. Unknown: You looked pretty today. Careful—wolves like pretty. I blocked the number without reply and set the phone face down like a tiny, bright‑mouthed animal.
On the credenza, the ring box I had carried out of the hotel yesterday sat like a black hole. I opened it. The pear‑cut diamond stared back—sharp, bright, proof that even stones can be liars. I closed it quietly and slid it into a drawer with the lease I didn't read and the pen I only sign battles with.
Then I caught myself in the mirror. Same bones. Same mouth. Different eyes. The kind you get when you stop apologizing for standing where you can see the city and the city can see you.
My phone buzzed again. Hazel: Sleep. A second later, Damien: Car at 6:15. We'll make them look, then make them think.
I typed: Copy. Then, after a beat I could blame on the rain: About the kiss—
I stopped. I erased the dash. I typed nothing else. Some questions live longer when you don't feed them.
Outside, the rain softened to a hum. Downriver, the last tour boat cut a pale line through black water. On another bank, a man with a storm for a last name stared at a screen and tried to remember how to be untouchable. Somewhere between us, a truth about a will and a courier waited for the day it would walk onstage with evidence and a microphone.
I turned off the light.
The city kept going, because it always does.
Tomorrow would be louder. Tomorrow I'd walk into the noise on a different arm, in a different dress, with the same spine. Tomorrow there might be another kiss that everyone would call strategy and no one would call what it also was.
I smiled once at the dark window—no teeth, just glint—and let the storm write its own applause on the glass.
Sleep, finally, did what men with microphones couldn't: it closed the show.