Friday arrives with the weight of inevitability.
Mia wakes at dawn, too anxious to sleep. The interview is at ten—Real Talk's studios in Tribeca, just her and Emma Rodriguez and however many millions of subscribers will eventually watch.
No pressure.
She's in the bathroom, staring at her reflection and trying to decide if she looks pregnant or just bloated, when Alexander appears behind her.
"You're spiraling," he observes.
"I'm not spiraling. I'm rationally panicking."
"That's called spiraling." His hands settle on her shoulders, warm and grounding. "What are you most afraid of?"
"Everything. Nothing. Saying the wrong thing. Being too honest. Not being honest enough." Mia's laugh is hollow. "The journalist is going to ask if I love you, and I don't know what to say."
Alexander goes very still behind her. "What do you want to say?"
The question hangs between them, loaded with everything they haven't discussed.
"I don't know," Mia whispers. It's not quite a lie.
"Then tell her that." His eyes meet hers in the mirror. "Tell her we're figuring it out. That we're building something real from unusual circumstances. That love isn't always lightning bolts and instant certainty—sometimes it's showing up every day and choosing each other."
"Is that what we're doing? Choosing each other?"
"I am." Simple. Definitive. "Every day, Mia. I'm choosing you."
Her throat tightens. "Even when the contract expires?"
"Especially then."
Before she can respond, his phone buzzes. Reality intruding. He checks it, sighs.
"Marcus needs me at the office for an hour. Emergency with the Singapore deal." He turns her around, hands framing her face. "But I'll be done by nine-thirty. I'll drive you to the interview myself."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to. You supported me at the gala. I support you in this." He kisses her forehead. "You're going to be brilliant. Just be yourself. That's all they need to see."
He leaves. Mia finishes getting ready alone, choosing her outfit carefully—jeans and a soft cream sweater, elegant but casual. Real. She's going for real today.
Her phone buzzes. A text from Grace.
**Grace: Good luck today! You've got this. And thank you again—I have THREE commissions from celebrities because of that gala. You're literally changing my life.**
Another text, this one from Sophie.
**Sophie: Remember—you're a badass who survived foster care, poverty, and Eleanor Kane. One interview is NOTHING. Call me after. Love you.**
Mia smiles, pockets her phone. She has people in her corner. That matters.
At nine-fifteen, Eleanor appears unannounced.
"I brought reinforcements," she says, holding up a garment bag. "Your outfit is fine for casual authenticity. But you'll need this for the photo shoot after."
"Photo shoot?"
"Real Talk always does photos. You need something that photographs well but still feels like you." Eleanor unzips the bag, revealing a stunning emerald blouse—the same color as her gala dress. "Grace sent it over this morning. Said to tell you it's a gift."
The blouse is perfect—silk, elegant, with a subtle drape that will accommodate her bump.
"I can't accept this—"
"You can and you will. Grace is smart. She knows you wearing her designs in a major interview is worth more than money." Eleanor sets down the bag. "Now. Let's talk strategy."
"I thought you approved of me being authentic."
"Authentic and strategic aren't mutually exclusive." Eleanor sits, crosses her legs. "Emma Rodriguez is good. Fair, but thorough. She'll ask about the foster care—embrace it. She'll ask about the contract—don't get defensive. She'll ask about love—" Eleanor pauses. "What will you say?"
"I don't know yet."
"Then figure it out. Before you're on camera." Eleanor's tone softens. "For what it's worth—I see how my son looks at you. How he's changed since you entered his life. Whatever you feel or don't feel, it's affecting him. Be careful with that."
"Are you warning me not to hurt him?"
"I'm warning you that hearts are fragile. Even ones encased in ice." Eleanor stands. "Now go. Marcus is waiting downstairs. Alexander will meet you there."
---
Real Talk's studios are surprisingly intimate.
Not some massive production facility, but a converted loft with exposed brick and natural light. Emma Rodriguez greets Mia herself—early thirties, Latina, wearing jeans and a blazer, immediately warm.
"Mia, thank you for doing this." Emma's handshake is firm. "I know this week has been insane for you. We really appreciate you choosing us."
"Thank you for having me. I've been watching your interviews for years."
"Then you know I ask hard questions. But I promise—I'm not here to tear you down. I want to understand your story." Emma gestures to the set—two comfortable chairs, soft lighting, minimal equipment. "We keep it simple. Just conversation. No gotcha moments, no surprises. If something feels too personal, just say so."
"Can I really do that?"
"Of course. You control your narrative here. That's the whole point."
Mia relaxes slightly. This might actually be okay.
Alexander arrives at 9:45, slightly breathless. "Sorry. Traffic was—" He stops, taking in the studio. "This is nice. Intimate."
"That's the idea." Emma shakes his hand. "Alexander Kane. I've wanted to interview you for years."
"Maybe after this you can." He turns to Mia. "How are you feeling?"
"Terrified. But ready."
"You'll be amazing." He kisses her temple—casual, affectionate, real. "I'll be watching from the control room."
The crew does final adjustments. Lights, sound checks, camera angles. Mia sits in her chair, microphone clipped to her sweater, trying not to think about the millions who will eventually see this.
"Okay," Emma says, settling into her own chair. "Let's do this. Ready?"
Mia nods.
The camera light goes red.
---
"Mia Kane, thank you for sitting down with us." Emma's smile is genuine. "Let's start at the beginning. You grew up in foster care. Can you tell us about that?"
Mia takes a breath. "I entered the system when I was six. My parents died in a car accident—drunk driver. I had no other family, so I went into foster care. I stayed there until I aged out at eighteen."
"Fourteen different homes, according to reports. That must have been difficult."
"It was hard. Every time I settled somewhere, I'd get moved. Different families, different schools, different rules. You learn not to get attached. Not to expect permanence." Mia's hands twist in her lap. "I spent most of my childhood waiting to be chosen. And mostly not being chosen."
"What was that like? Not being chosen?"
The question is gentle but cuts deep.
"Lonely. You watch other kids get adopted, get permanent families. And you wonder what's wrong with you. Why you're not good enough." Mia's voice steadies. "But it also made me resilient. I learned to take care of myself. To build my own life from nothing."
"You became an artist."
"I did. Art was the one constant. No matter which home I was in, I could paint. It was mine. No one could take it away."
"And you struggled financially for years."
"Yes. Two jobs, terrible apartment, barely making rent. The typical starving artist story." Mia manages a smile. "Not very glamorous."
"But honest. And I think that's why people connected with you at the gala." Emma leans forward. "Let's talk about that night. The confrontation with Victoria Ashford. That video has been viewed over fifty million times."
"Has it really? That's... wow."
"What was going through your mind when she called you a gold digger in front of five hundred people?"
Mia considers. "Honestly? I was angry. And tired. Tired of people assuming they knew my story. Tired of being judged for surviving." She meets Emma's eyes. "Victoria said I trapped Alexander by getting pregnant. That I'm nobody who got lucky. And I realized—she's right. I am nobody. I have no family, no money, no connections. But I'm still here. Still standing. And that's worth something."
"You said in that moment, 'He still chose me.' What did you mean by that?"
"I meant that despite all my disadvantages, despite coming from nothing, Alexander still chose to marry me. That has to mean something. About me, about him, about what we're building together."
"Let's talk about that. Your marriage to Alexander Kane." Emma's tone is careful. "There's been a lot of speculation. The contract, the two-year term. Can you address that?"
Here it is. The moment of truth.
"Yes, there's a contract," Mia says clearly. "We were practical about our situation. I got pregnant from a one-night stand. We barely knew each other. Alexander offered marriage with clear terms—two years, with the option to extend or end it. Financial security for me and the baby. Legal protections for both of us."
"Some people call that unromantic."
"Some people have never had to survive without a safety net." Mia's voice is firm. "I grew up with nothing. The idea of security, of knowing my child will be provided for—that's not unromantic. That's responsible."
"But it's not a traditional marriage."
"No. But I'm not a traditional person." Mia smiles. "And honestly? The contract took pressure off. We could get to know each other without pretending to be in love. Without performing for anyone. We could just... be."
"And now? Four months later. Are you still 'just being'?"
The question everyone wants answered.
Mia is quiet for a moment. "We're figuring it out. Building something real from unusual circumstances. I can't tell you where we'll be in two years. But I can tell you that every day, we choose to show up for each other. That's more than a lot of traditional marriages have."
"Do you love him?"
There it is. The question that's been haunting her all week.
"I'm learning to," Mia says honestly. "Love isn't always instant. Sometimes it's slow. Built through morning sickness support and honest conversations and being seen by someone who could have anyone but chooses you anyway." She pauses. "So yes. I think I'm falling in love with Alexander Kane. But I'm taking my time about it."
Emma's smile is understanding. "And the baby? How are you feeling about becoming a mother?"
"Terrified. Excited. Completely unprepared." Mia laughs. "I never had a real family. Never experienced functional parenting. So I'm basically making it up as I go. But I'm determined to be better than what I had. To give this baby the permanence and love I never got."
"What do you want people to know? About you, about your story."
Mia considers. "I want them to know that I'm not a gold digger or a social climber or a scandal. I'm just a woman who got pregnant and made the best decision I could with the information I had. I'm figuring out how to be a wife, a mother, a person in a world that's completely foreign to me. And yeah, I'm making mistakes. But I'm trying. That has to count for something."
"It counts for everything." Emma glances at her notes. "Last question. Your art. You're a painter. Several galleries have expressed interest in showing your work. How does that feel?"
"Surreal. I've been trying to break into galleries for years. And suddenly, because of a viral video, doors are opening." Mia's expression is complicated. "Part of me feels like I'm cheating. Like I didn't earn it. But then I remember—I've been painting for twenty years. I've survived poverty and rejection and endless setbacks. Maybe I did earn it. Just not in the traditional way."
"What are you working on now?"
"A series about belonging. About finding home in unexpected places." Mia's hand unconsciously rests on her stomach. "It's evolving as I live it."
"I'd love to see it someday."
"Maybe you will."
Emma smiles. "Mia Kane, thank you. This has been wonderful."
The camera light goes dark.
---
In the control room, Alexander watches the playback with the production team.
"She's incredible," Emma says, reviewing footage. "Authentic, vulnerable, strong. This is going to resonate with millions of women."
"When does it air?" Alexander asks.
"We'll edit over the weekend. It'll go live Monday morning." Emma looks at him. "You chose well, Mr. Kane. She's special."
"I know."
Mia appears, looking drained but relieved. Alexander immediately pulls her close.
"You were perfect," he murmurs. "Honest, real, exactly what they needed to see."
"I told them I'm falling in love with you."
"I heard."
"And?"
Alexander pulls back, eyes searching hers. "And I'm already there. Have been for weeks. I just didn't know how to tell you."
The admission steals her breath.
"Alexander—"
"Not here." He glances at the crew. "Let's go home. We need to talk."
They leave the studio, stepping into cold December air. The city rushes around them—millions of people, millions of lives, millions of stories.
But right now, the only story that matters is theirs.