4. Theo
THEO
"She lands at three-thirty AM."
My father's not asking for my opinion. It reminds me of when I was twelve and he informed me I'd be spending my summer at hockey camp instead of whatever twelve-year-olds do with free time.
"Dad—"
"Kofi's sending a car to bring her straight to your building. Security's been notified."
I set down the protein shake I've been nursing since practice ended and lean against my kitchen counter. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan spreads out below me in its usual grid of light and ambition, everyone else's problems neatly contained behind glass and steel.
"This is a mistake."
"It's a favor."
"It's a liability. My season starts in six weeks. I have endorsement obligations, team commitments?—"
"I know what you have."
"Then you know I can't afford to be connected to whatever this is. The headlines alone?—"
"Will disappear faster if she's somewhere stable instead of checked into the Plaza where photographers can camp in the lobby."
I move to the living room, where my schedule for tomorrow sits organized on the coffee table—practice at eight, team meeting at eleven, sponsor event at three. Clean lines, predictable outcomes, everything exactly where it belongs.
"She doesn't want to be here either."
"Probably not."
"She's going to hate every second of it."
"Most likely."
"She's going to make that everyone else's problem."
"That's what she does."
My father's voice carries something that might be amusement, which irritates me more than his certainty.
He's known Azaria since she was six years old and I was nine, back when her biggest crimes were putting sand in my hockey gloves and convincing me to climb trees I was too tall to climb gracefully.
Even then, she specialized in creating situations other people had to solve.
"How long?"
"However long it takes."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I have."
I walk to the window and press my palm against the cool glass. Somewhere out there, she's on a plane, probably arguing with someone about something that matters to no one except her. In four hours, that argument will be happening in my living room.
"I could say no."
"You could."
"But you wouldn't accept it."
"No."
"Because of your friendship with her father."
"Because it's the right thing to do."
The right thing. My father's north star, his answer to every complicated question. Do the right thing, work hard, keep your word, protect the people who matter. Simple principles that somehow always lead to complicated situations.
"She's going to disrupt everything."
"Probably."
"My routine, my schedule, my?—"
"Your perfectly controlled life where nothing unexpected ever happens?"
"Yes."
"Good."
I turn away from the window. My father has never said anything that direct about the way I live, but the implication sits between us.
"This isn't about me."
"No. It's about a young woman who needs help and two families who've been there for each other for twenty years."
"She won't appreciate it."
"She doesn't have to."
"She'll make it as difficult as possible."
"She usually does."
I sit down on my couch, which is exactly the right shade of charcoal gray and positioned at exactly the right angle to the television. Everything in this apartment has a place and a purpose. Everything makes sense.
In four hours, none of that will matter.
"I need ground rules."
"Talk to her about ground rules."
"I'm serious, Dad."
"So am I. This is between you and her now."
The line goes quiet except for the sound of his breathing, steady and patient as always. He's waiting for me to accept what we both know is inevitable.
"Fine."
"Good."
"But when this goes badly?—"
"It might not."
"When it goes badly," I repeat, "I want it on record that I predicted it."
"Noted."
The call ends, and I sit in the silence of my apartment.
I allow myself exactly thirty seconds to sit with the knowledge that in less than four hours, Azaria Emerson will be here, bringing with her the particular brand of chaos that follows her like expensive perfume.
Thirty seconds. Then I stand up and start making space.
I approach the guest room. The space needs to function, nothing more. I text my housekeeper.
"Need the blue room prepared by three AM. Fresh everything."
Her response comes back within minutes. This is why I pay her well.
While she handles linens and towels, I walk through the townhouse with my phone, making notes. The security system gets updated with new codes. The kitchen gets stocked with basics—coffee, bottled water, food that won't spoil if she decides to eat nothing but room service for a week.
I'm not anticipating gratitude. I'm ensuring my home operates correctly regardless of occupancy.
The guest room sits on the third floor, separated from my bedroom by an entire level and a home gym. Intentional distance. It has its own bathroom, a sitting area, and windows that face the back garden instead of the street. Private. Functional. Adequate.
I open my laptop and begin typing.
House Guidelines:
Quiet hours: 10 PM - 7 AM (my training schedule requires sleep)
No guests without advance notice
Kitchen available, clean up after use
Security codes change weekly, will provide updates
Media contact goes through your team, not mine
I pause, reading the list. Five items. Reasonable expectations for any adult staying in someone else's home. Nothing controversial, nothing demanding. Basic respect for shared space.
My phone vibrates with updates from the housekeeper. Egyptian cotton sheets, premium towels, bathroom stocked with essentials. She's even put fresh flowers on the nightstand—white orchids.
I delete the flowers from her invoice. This isn't a hotel.
The security footage requires more attention.
I pull up feeds from the past forty-eight hours, studying patterns.
Three photographers have been rotating shifts across the street since yesterday afternoon.
Two more stationed at the coffee shop on the corner.
Amateur hour—they're not even trying to be subtle.
I map their positions, timing their shift changes, documenting license plates. When her location leaks, and it will leak, I want to know exactly who's watching and when they're most vulnerable to being spotted.
The building's security chief picks up on the first ring.
"Need to discuss protocol for media attention."
"How much attention?"
"International level. Paparazzi, potentially tabloid crews."
"Timeline?"
"Next twenty-four to forty-eight hours."
"I'll brief the team."
I review camera angles from the underground garage, checking blind spots and timing entry sequences.
The service elevator provides direct access to my floor without passing through the main lobby.
The loading dock connects to the garage through a corridor that doesn't appear on any public building plans.
Multiple exit strategies. Contingency routes. Control over variables I can actually control.
My phone shows 2:47 AM.
The guest room is ready—functional, private, and exactly as welcoming as a well-run hotel. The house guidelines sit printed on expensive paper, placed on the nightstand next to a key card and building information. Security briefings are complete. Media patterns are documented.
Everything is prepared for the arrival of someone who will appreciate none of it.
I pour myself a glass of water and review tomorrow's schedule one final time. Practice at eight remains unchanged. Team meeting at eleven remains unchanged. Sponsor event at three remains unchanged.
My life will continue operating exactly as it always has.
The fact that Azaria Emerson will be living in it changes nothing.
At exactly four AM, my doorbell rings.
I check the security monitor and there she is—Azaria Emerson in low-rise gray sweatpants that sit dangerously low on her hips, a white baby tee that barely qualifies as clothing, and a silk Hermès scarf tied over what looks like fresh weave.
She's examining her nails like she's waiting for a coffee order instead of seeking refuge from an international scandal.
She looks, I register despite myself, extraordinary.
I know she's a model. Everyone knows this.
But Azaria in person has always been different from Azaria in print—more striking up close, beauty that doesn't require magazine lighting or retouching.
Her dark skin catches the hallway light like it was designed for it, and those siren eyes hold the exact expression I remember: amused by something no one else finds funny.
I open the door.
"Well, well." She steps past me without invitation, dragging a single Louis Vuitton suitcase. "Theodore Tate. Still built like a mountain, still scowling like someone stole your lunch money."
"It's four in the morning."
"Is it? Time flies when you're having your life destroyed by French police." She drops her suitcase in my foyer and turns in a slow circle, taking in the space. "Very beige. Very safe. Very you."
"The guest room is upstairs. Third floor."
"How hospitable." She's already moving toward my living room, silk scarf trailing behind her like she owns the place. "Got anything to drink? Flying makes me thirsty, and hiding from international drug cartels makes me parched."
I follow her, maintaining distance. "There are guidelines for your stay here."
"Guidelines?" She settles onto my charcoal sofa like she's posing for a photoshoot, one leg tucked under her, the other extended with pointed toe. "How delightfully institutional."
I retrieve the printed sheet from the side table. "Quiet hours from ten PM to seven AM. No guests without advance notice. Kitchen available but clean up after use. Security codes change weekly. Media contact goes through your team."
She takes the paper, reads for exactly three seconds, then laughs.
Not a polite laugh. A full, genuine laugh that fills my entire living room and makes something in my chest tighten involuntarily.
"Oh my God, you're still completely insane."
"Don't call me crazy."
"Crazy? Honey, this is advanced crazy. You made me a laminated rule sheet like I'm checking into summer camp." She waves the paper. "What's next, assigned chores? Lights out at nine?"
"This is my home. I make the rules here."
"Your home." She stands up, pacing to the window with that fluid grace that made her famous. "Right. Your perfectly controlled, perfectly organized, perfectly beige home where everything has a place and that place is exactly where you left it."
"What's wrong with organization?"
"Nothing, if you're running a military base. But you're not, are you? You're just a man who's so terrified of mess that you color-coordinate your sock drawer."
"I don't?—"
"You absolutely do. I bet you have backup schedules for your schedules."
She's not wrong, which makes this more irritating. "Structure isn't a character flaw."
"No, but thinking you can control a human being with a laminated list definitely is." She turns from the window, and that smile appears—the one that used to get us both in trouble when we were kids. "Tell me, Theodore, what happens if I break one of your precious rules?"
"Don't test me, Azaria."
"Oh, I'm not testing you. I'm just curious about the enforcement policy. Do I get demerits? A strongly worded letter? Or do you just stand there looking disapproving until I comply?"
I can feel her baiting me, finding exactly the right words to crawl under my skin.
"You could try being grateful."
"Grateful?" She laughs again. "For what? The privilege of being warehoused in your beige fortress while my entire career burns down? The joy of following your little rules like a good girl?"
"Huh?"
She stands up from the couch with that fluid grace that makes everything look choreographed, even at four in the morning after an international flight.
She moves closer. Too close.
Her fingers land on my forearm, light as air but somehow burning through the fabric of my t-shirt. She tilts her head up—even at 5'10, she has to look up to meet my eyes—and bats her lashes with theatrical slowness.
"You want me to be a good girl, huh?"
Her voice drops to something that belongs in bedrooms and dark corners, breathy and warm and completely at odds with the conversation we were just having about house rules and gratitude. The scent of her perfume—something expensive and floral.
My brain short-circuits.
"What are you?—"
"What am I doing?" She steps even closer, her hand sliding up my arm to rest just below my shoulder. "Just clarifying expectations, Theodore. You have so many rules about being good. I want to make sure I understand exactly what kind of good you're looking for."
Heat crawls up my neck. My carefully controlled environment suddenly feels too small, too warm, too full of her presence and that smile that promises trouble.
She throws her head back and laughs—rich, delighted, completely genuine.
"Oh my God, don't look so scandalized!"