36. Theo
THEO
By noon, the vindication machine operates at full velocity.
I watch from the couch as every network cycles through the same story with increasingly dramatic graphics.
CNN's chyron reads: AZARIA EMERSON: FROM SCANDAL TO HERO.
Fox News counters with MODEL HELPS EXPOSE INTERNATIONAL CRIME RING.
Even the fashion blogs that crucified me two months ago scramble to reframe their coverage.
"Margot's confession is everywhere," I murmur, scrolling through my phone. "Lane really delivered."
Theo sits at the dining table, laptop open, working through what looks like contract revisions. He's been like this all morning—steady background support while I navigate the chaos of being publicly vindicated.
My phone screeches. Dad's name on the screen.
"Hi, Daddy."
"Zari." His voice carries relief so thick I can practically touch it. "I'm watching the news. How are you feeling?"
"Like I can breathe again." I curl deeper into the couch cushions. "Also slightly nauseous from the whiplash."
"The legal team says charges against you will be formally dropped within hours. We're already fielding calls from new brands and the old brands."
I laugh, but there's no bitterness in it. Just exhaustion. "Money follows vindication like vultures follow roadkill."
"Your mother would be proud."
I glance at Theo, who's looking at me with those steady grey eyes. "You think so?"
"I know so. You didn't run. You fought back. That's exactly what she would have done."
After we hang up, I dial Leonard and Rachel on speakerphone.
Their voices overlap in excitement, talking over each other about rehabilitation campaigns and strategic interviews.
I let them plan while staring at the television, watching my face cycle through news segments like some surreal slideshow.
"We need to control the narrative going forward," Rachel insists. "Position you as the woman who helped bring down international criminals."
"I didn't help bring down anything," I correct. "I just refused to disappear quietly."
"Same result," Leonard counters. "Different framing."
Theo's fingers pause on his keyboard. He's listening without looking like he's listening, processing every word of strategy being thrown around. When my team starts discussing media appearances, he finally speaks up.
"No interviews for at least two days."
Rachel's voice sharpens through the speaker. "Excuse me?"
"She needs time to process this. The media will wait."
"The media absolutely will not wait?—"
"Then they can report on someone else." His tone brooks no argument. "Azaria's not performing for anyone right now."
I end the call before Rachel can respond and immediately dial Lane.
"You beautiful, brilliant journalist," I say when she picks up. "You actually did it."
"We did it. Margot's confession was the key, but your timeline work gave us the framework." Lane's voice carries satisfaction mixed with exhaustion. "Massimo's lawyers are already trying to plea bargain. Apparently, federal prison doesn't appeal to sixty-four-year-old Italian aristocrats."
"Shocking."
"The other arrests happened so fast because they had everything ready. Your evidence, Margot's confession, financial records they'd been tracking for months. It all came together like dominoes."
"Thank you, Lane. Seriously. You saved my life."
"You saved your own life. I just reported it."
After I hang up, Theo closes his laptop and moves to the couch, sitting close enough that our knees touch. The television continues its relentless cycle of vindication, but I'm not really watching anymore.
"How does it feel?" he asks.
"Surreal. Like I'm watching someone else's life get fixed. Just months ago, I was the most hated woman in fashion. Now I'm supposedly some kind of hero."
"You're not supposedly anything. You fought back when everyone expected you to disappear."
"With your help."
"You would have figured it out without me."
I turn to study his profile. "Would I have?"
"Yeah. You would have. You're too stubborn to let someone else write your ending."
The news anchor's voice drifts over us, discussing Massimo's arraignment and the international scope of the investigation. My phone keeps lighting up with notifications I'm not ready to read.
By evening, the noise settles into something manageable. Azaria's phone stops buzzing every thirty seconds. The television cycles through other stories. We order dinner from the Thai place down the street and eat in relative quiet, both of us processing the whiplash of vindication.
She curls into the corner of the couch afterward, legs tucked under her, wearing an old Rangers hoodies that swallows her frame. The sight does something to my chest I'm not prepared for.
"I need to apologize."
I set down my beer. "For what?"
"For leaving without saying anything. For disappearing like that." She picks at the sleeve of the hoodie. "I overheard your call with James."
"Which call?"
"The one about your captaincy being reviewed. The sponsorships. All of it. I heard him telling you that keeping me around was going to cost you everything you've worked for."
"So you decided to leave."
"I decided to stop being the reason you lost your career."
"Without asking me."
She meets my eyes finally. "What was I supposed to ask? Whether you wanted to sacrifice everything for someone who brings chaos wherever she goes?"
"You could have asked if I thought you were worth it."
Azaria's composure cracks just enough for me to see the fear underneath.
"I've been thinking about this for months, about why I kept pushing for just physical between us. Why I kept trying to make it about sex and nothing deeper."
"And?"
"Because I was terrified that if it became something real, something would happen to you too.
Everyone I love—" She stops, swallows hard.
"Everyone I love gets hurt. My mother. The people who get close to me.
I thought if I kept it surface level, if I kept you at arm's length emotionally, maybe you'd be safe from whatever curse follows me around. "
I study her face, reading the genuine terror there. "So when you heard James talking about consequences, it confirmed everything you already believed."
"That I'm poison for people I care about? Yeah. It did."
"You made a unilateral decision about what my life should look like without asking me. Which is exactly what you've been accusing me of doing to you since you got here."
She blinks, processing. "Shit."
"Yeah. Shit."
"I was trying to protect you."
"By deciding what I could and couldn't handle. By choosing for me."
Azaria pulls her knees to her chest, making herself smaller. "You're right. God, you're completely right. I did exactly what I hate when you do it."
"I understand why you were terrified. But you don't get to make that choice for me."
"I am sorry."
"This whole thing about bringing chaos and ruin to people you love—that's not real, Azaria. That's grief talking."
She looks up sharply. "My mother?—"
"Died in a car accident. A tragic, horrible accident that had nothing to do with you."
"We had been fighting?—"
"You were fifteen. Teenagers fight with their parents. It doesn't make you responsible for what happened after."
Tears gather in her eyes, but she doesn't let them fall. "It feels real."
"I know it does. But feelings aren't facts." I reach for her hand, threading our fingers together. "And even if chaos followed you around, even if loving you was dangerous—which it's not—that would still be my choice to make."
She stares at our joined hands. "Why would you choose that?"
"Because I'm in love with you."
Azaria goes completely still.
"I'm in love with the way you argue with me over breakfast. I'm in love with how you look in my clothes, drowning in fabric but somehow making it look intentional.
I'm in love with your terrible taste in reality television and your excellent taste in wine and the way you read three books at once and never finish any of them. "
Her breath catches.
"I'm in love with your voice when you're being sarcastic and when you're being genuine and when you're half-asleep and mumbling about whatever dream you just woke up from. I'm in love with your smile, especially that dimple."
I shift closer, bringing our joined hands to my chest.
"I'm in love with how you look in your clothes. I'm in love with your kindness, even when you try to hide it behind sarcasm. I'm in love with how you defend people you care about and how you refuse to back down from a fight."
Azaria's eyes are wide, locked on mine.
"I'm in love with how you tear into me when you think I'm being controlling, because you're usually right and you're never afraid to call me on my shit. I'd rather fight with you than have peace with anyone else. I'd rather have you angry at me than not have you at all."
My voice drops lower, more urgent.
"When you're near me, I can't think straight.
I can't focus on anything except you. The way you move, the way you smell, the way you challenge everything I think I know about myself.
When you left—" I have to stop, swallow hard.
"When you left, it felt like someone had ripped out half my chest and taken it with them. "
A tear finally escapes, tracking down her cheek.
"So yeah, I choose the chaos. I choose the complications and the media attention and whatever consequences come with loving you. Because the alternative is not having you, and that's not really living."
Azaria's breath catches against my lips.
"I love you too."
Three words and everything shifts. The world narrows to the space between our mouths, the heat of her exhale, the way her fingers tighten in my hair. Then she's kissing me like she's trying to consume me, like she's been starving for months and I'm the first real meal she's had.
The kiss turns feral fast. Teeth clash, tongues tangle, her nails scrape down my back hard enough to leave marks. I taste the salt of her tears mixed with something sweeter—wine, maybe, or just Azaria herself.