31. Azaria
AZARIA
Three weeks of federal investigation feels like three years when you're living in limbo.
The FBI moves like glaciers—slow, methodical, crushing everything in their path but taking their sweet time about it.
Logan calls with updates that sound like non-updates: "They're reviewing the evidence.
" "They're building the case." "These things take time. "
Meanwhile, I exist in Theo's townhouse like a ghost haunting someone else's life.
The photographers outside have thinned to a dedicated few, the ones who get paid by the shot and can't afford to give up their posts.
The rest moved on to fresher scandals, which should feel like relief but mostly feels like abandonment.
I've been in my room since dinner, staring at the ceiling and trying to convince myself that sleep might actually happen tonight. The insomnia comes in waves now—sometimes I manage four or five hours, other times I lie awake until sunrise listening to Theo's alarm go off down the hall.
The silence in the house feels different tonight. Heavier. Like the air before a storm that everyone can sense but no one wants to acknowledge.
I give up on sleep and pad barefoot down the hallway, thinking maybe a movie will quiet the restless energy crawling under my skin. Something mindless and distracting, preferably with explosions or car chases or anything that doesn't require emotional investment.
"Theo?" I call softly, not wanting to startle him if he's already settled in for the night. "Want to watch something terrible with me?"
His voice drifts from the study, muffled but audible through the door that's cracked open just enough to let sound escape.
"—can't keep ignoring this, Theo. The board made their decision."
That must be James. I freeze in the hallway, my bare feet suddenly feeling exposed against the hardwood. I should announce myself, walk away, give them privacy for whatever conversation is happening behind that door.
Instead, I step closer.
"The captaincy review concluded yesterday, I've been trying to find the right way to tell you, but there isn't one."
"Just say it."
Theo's voice is flat.
"It's conditional. You keep the captaincy if you publicly distance yourself from Azaria within the week. If you don't, Sergio steps in as captain and you go back to alternate."
I press my back against the hallway wall, heart hammering against my ribs.
I close my eyes, fingers digging into the smooth wall behind me. Of course. Of course this was coming. I've been waiting for it without realizing, holding my breath for the moment when protecting me would cost him everything that matters.
"The board was very clear," James presses on. "This isn't negotiable. It's not a request. Either you make the statement, or you lose the captaincy permanently."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you become a very expensive alternate captain with a reputation for poor judgment and an inability to separate personal drama from professional responsibility."
The silence stretches long enough that I wonder if they've moved to another part of the room, if I've lost the thread of the conversation.
"I know this isn't what you want to hear, but she's going to understand. Azaria's smart enough to know this was always temporary, always conditional on how the investigation played out."
"Don't."
"She'll respect the position you're in?—"
"Don't talk about what she'll understand or respect. You don't know her."
"I know enough. I know she's been trouble since the day she walked into your life, and I know you've been making increasingly poor decisions trying to protect someone who was never your responsibility to protect."
I bite down on my lower lip hard enough to taste copper, using the physical pain to anchor myself against the emotional free fall.
"She was set up, James. The investigation will prove that."
"Maybe. Eventually. But that doesn't change what's happening right now, today, to your career."
I back away from the door like I've been burned.
The hardwood doesn't creak—Theo's house is too well-built for that kind of betrayal.
My feet know exactly where to step to avoid the loose board near the kitchen, the spot that groans under pressure.
I've memorized every flaw in this perfect space during weeks of restless nights. I go straight back up to my bedroom.
My bedroom door closes behind me with the softest click. I press my palms flat against the wood, and feel the first tear slide down my cheek before I realize I'm crying.
This is how it starts. This is how it always starts.
The slow bleed of damage spreading from me to the people who make the mistake of standing too close.
And now this. The ultimatum. The moment when being anywhere near me becomes too expensive to sustain.
I slide down the door until I'm sitting on the floor, knees pulled to my chest. The tears come faster now, hot and relentless, carrying eleven years of accumulated guilt that I've never quite managed to wash away.
Mama's face flashes behind my closed eyelids—animated, frustrated, gesturing wildly as she paced around our kitchen that last night. "You're selfish, Azaria. You think the world revolves around your drama, but someday you'll learn that actions have consequences for other people too."
She'd been right, of course. She was always right about the important things, which made it worse that our last conversation had been about all the ways I was disappointing her.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand and stared at the ceiling, counting the barely visible imperfections in the paint.
The pattern repeats itself. I get close enough to matter, close enough for someone to invest in protecting me, and then I watch the cost compound until they can't afford me anymore.
Well, I won’t let another person suffer for my bad luck.
The front door closes with its familiar soft thud at 6:47 AM—Theo's early practice schedule as predictable as sunrise. I count to thirty, listening for the sound of his car pulling away from the curb, then grab my phone.
My fingers shake as I dial. The phone rings once before my father’s voice comes through, alert despite the early hour.
"Zari? What's wrong?"
"I need somewhere to go. Within the hour. Just—make it happen, please."
I can picture him in his home office, already dressed despite the time, coffee steaming beside whatever financial reports he reviews before most people wake up.
"What happened between you and Theo?"
"I don't want to talk about it." My voice cracks on the last word, betraying me. "Please, Daddy. I just need to be somewhere else. Anywhere else."
"Azaria—"
"Please."
Another pause, shorter this time. When he speaks again, his tone shifts into the efficient mode I recognize from childhood—the voice that solved problems without asking unnecessary questions.
"I arranged another place for you to stay when this began in case Theo said no. Upper East Side, completely private, security handled. I'll have Murray there in forty-five minutes."
"Thank you."
"Zari, baby. Whatever happened, we can handle it. We always do."
I hang up before he can say anything else that might crack what's left of my resolve.
Packing becomes mechanical. I move through the guest room like I'm following a checklist—clothes folded, toiletries swept into travel bags, jewelry tucked into padded cases. Everything that belongs to me disappears into luggage with ruthless efficiency.
The only things I leave behind are his sweaters—the ones I've been stealing for weeks.
I fold each one carefully, smoothing out wrinkles that aren't there, and place them in a neat stack on the bed.
I also pack the knickknacks I forced on him to decorate the living room with—the elephant and the rest.
I zip the last suitcase and stand in the doorway of the bedroom.
I'm protecting him. I tell myself this.
My phone buzzes. A text from Murray: Downstairs. Service entrance.
I disable location sharing with a few quick taps, then power down the phone completely. I get a new device from my dad’s security team—untraceable, encrypted, completely separate from the digital footprints that have been tracking my every move for weeks.
The service elevator carries me down in silence. Through the small window, I catch a glimpse of the photographers still camped across the street, telephoto lenses trained on the front entrance they expect me to use.
They'll wait there for hours before realizing I'm gone.
The black sedan idles in the alley, engine purring. Murray opens the door without a word, his expression professionally neutral as he loads my luggage into the trunk.
I slide into the backseat and don't look back.