Mr. and Mrs. Ashford's house smelled like thyme and and fresh linen as the stew simmered low.
Mrs. Ashford wiped her hands on a towel and turned at the sound of keys opening the door.
"Sophia?"
"Hi, Mum." Sophia breezed in with an oversized bag , carrying a ring light.
She kissed her mother's cheek, went into the former home office to hug her father, and set the bag on the table as if she did this every day.
Mr. Ashford closed his spiral notebook over numbers that wouldn't behave. "You're early."
"I brought something." Sophia held up the ring light like salvation. "It's just a ring light for better lightning . It's not… it's not a thing-thing." She laughed too brightly.
"A friend of a friend does PR. She wants to help Ashley."
Mrs. Ashford stilled. "Help her how?"
"The show is called Context," Sophia said, warming to the word.
"The narrative online about Ashley, is so twisted. If we give a little truth of who she is, how kind she is, it takes the air out of the lies. It's not a standard formal interview. Just… a kitchen chat. For background and depth. Off the record."
"Off the record," Mr. Ashford repeated, skeptical, like testing a lemon.
Sophia was already clearing a spot by the window. She propped the ring light on two finance books belonging to Ashley and plugged it in.
The circle glowed, humming softly, and made the curtains look like a set.
"Who is this friend?" Mrs. Ashford asked.
"Her name's Lila," Sophia said, opening a tablet. "She works with women who are getting unfair narratives. She said she'd take us on."
She looked up, hopeful.
"We can help Ash without bothering her."
"It's not a bother to her," Mrs. Ashford said. Mild reproach and worry braided together.
"I know," Sophia said quickly.
"But she's busy. And this should be our contribution. People need to see us, not headlines."
Mr. Ashford folded his hands. "What do we have to do?"
"Nothing serious." Sophia tapped the screen. "Just talk about her, your relationship with her and what you love about her, her best qualities. How she looks after people. Lila will guide you. And then we sign a tiny usage form so tabloids can't twist your words."
"That's not how tabloids work," Mr. Ashford muttered, but he moved closer anyway.
Sophia hit a button. A face appeared, sharp jaw, soft voice, perfect smile you could hear.
"Mrs. Ashford, Mr. Ashford, hello." Lila's tone poured like cream. "What a beautiful home. Thank you for giving me two minutes.
We are just a simple company aimed at empowering and defending women who have been given a wrong narrative or projected the wrong way."
"We're not very good at interviews," Mrs. Ashford said, smoothing the towel flat on the counter.
"That's why I'm here." Lila's smile widened, never showing teeth. "This is not an interview. Think of it as… context. A way to make sure the truth has a path if anyone ever asks. All off the record. You control it."
Sophia glanced between them, pleading with her eyes. "Mum. Dad."
Mr. Ashford cleared his throat. "No trap questions?"
"No traps," Lila said. "Only kindness. And you can stop at any time."
Sophia angled the tablet. The ring light traced a circle in her mother's glasses, she took them off and set them beside the spoons.
"What do we say?" Mrs. Ashford asked.
"Whatever's true," Lila said. "What you'd want the world to know if someone tried to defame or make her feel small in any way."
They began with baby steps, till they found a rhythm.
"She's empathic and grinds hard for those in her corner ," Mrs. Ashford said. "She knows even when someone's pretending to be fine."
"She's proud," Mr. Ashford offered. "She doesn't easily accept help, even when she clearly needs it." He smiled, small and bent like a paperclip. "She gets that from me."
"She is good," Mrs. Ashford said firmly, as if goodness were a measurable thing. "She is good."
Lila hummed approval. "Beautiful. Two more tiny pieces. Then you're free of me."
A PDF slid onto the tablet with a soft chime clean typography, short paragraphs, the legal kind of gentle.
"Standard usage," Lila said. "This only prevents tabloids from chopping your words out of context. We never publish anything without your consent."
Sophia nudged the tablet closer. "Just sign here. It's basic. I checked."
Mr. Ashford squinted at the footer. The font was modest, the letters neat.
L.V. Holdings – Outreach Desk.
"Who is L.V.?" he asked, sounding it out like a new language.
"An umbrella," Lila said. "We support women in public storms. A philanthropic arm, mostly. We prefer to be quiet."
"We like quiet," Mrs. Ashford said.
"Will this cost anything?"
"Not a penny," Lila said, warm as a blanket. "We believe in breathing room."
"And if we don't sign?" Mr. Ashford asked.
"Then you don't," Lila said lightly. "And we disappear. No harm."
Sophia leaned in. "Dad. Mum. Please. Let me do one thing right for her."
He looked at his wife. She looked back with the tight calm of a woman who had memorized every bill and decided not to cry about it in her kitchen.
"Okay," Mrs. Ashford said. "But if this hurts her, I'll come to your office and break your ring light."
Lila laughed like a friend. "Deal."
They signed. The ring light hummed. The stew whispered to itself.
Lila guided a few more soft prompts. Favorite childhood memory and alot of in between. In time they were done.
"You've been generous. We'll keep this safe. If you ever want to add or change anything, Sophie has my number."
"Sophia," Mr. Ashford corrected gently.
"Of course," Lila said. "Sophia."
The call ended. The ring light became just a ring, white and dumb on the counter. Sophia unplugged it, cheeks flushed with the kind of triumph that comes right before relief.
Mr. Ashford slid the signed PDF into a folder with recipes and school notices from a decade ago. It looked wrong there. Important things often do.
They sat together in the silence that happens after you've done a hard thing and the sky hasn't fallen.
Sophia's phone vibrated on the table. A message bubbled onto the screen from Lila – Outreach. Perfect, you were wonderful.
Sophia smiled, relieved.
Another ping. The email preview read,Thank you for your time.Weve routed a small honorarium as a courtesy. If you prefer a charitable reply 'DONATE and we'll process within 24 hours.
Mrs. Ashford opened a reply on Sophia's phone. Her fingers typed DON—and stopped.
She could hear the piano bench in her head, empty where the piano used to be. She could hear the fridge's tired motor, the way it grumbled wanting to be retired.
"We can send it back tomorrow," she said, voice small and practical. "We can keep the lights on tonight and donate next week, when Ashley…"
"When Ashley what?" Mr. Ashford asked, gentle, not unkind. "When Ashley fixes what we did not tell her about?"
"I don't want to ask her for money again either," she said, finally looking him in the eye.
"I should go," she said, gathering the ring light, the tablet, all into the oversized bag. "Thank you for trusting me."
"We trust you," Mrs. Ashford said. It was both a blessing and a test.
"We trust you to tell Ashley, too."
"I will," Sophia said quickly. "I'll call her later. Or tomorrow. I just…" She swallowed.
"I want to do this right first."
Mr. Ashford stood to walk her to the door.
At the door, Mrs Alford, hesitated. The evening had crept onto the porch, cool and ordinary.
"Sophia?"
"Yes, Mum?"
"I'm proud of you, thank you for looking out for your sister.'"
They hugged as Sophia , made her way out.
The house listened to its own quiet for a while. The stew had thickened. The towel had dried where worry had wrung it out.
Somewhere outside, a car idled and then moved on. Timing confirmed for the blast that was about to rock their worlds.