Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
ANDI
The water laps gently against my skin, sending warm suds sliding down my arm as I lift the glass of champagne to my lips.
Luke is behind me in the oversized claw-foot tub, his legs bracketing mine, his chest a steady anchor at my back.
I’m still reeling from his proposal—still half-convinced I imagined the whole thing.
There were no clues, no hints, nothing to prepare me for the way he looked at me tonight and asked me to marry him.
I can’t stop smiling, even as I try to quiet my racing thoughts. I want to start planning our wedding, but for now, I just want to savor this—our engagement, this rare peace, the feeling of his arms around me. For once, I want to let time slow down, to enjoy us without the world barging in.
Luke’s arm wraps around my waist, pulling me closer until I’m practically in his lap.
I arch into his touch, my body instinctively seeking his.
When his mouth finds mine, the kiss is slow and deep, stealing the breath from my lungs and the tension from my shoulders.
These moments feel stolen, precious—an oasis in the middle of the storm that’s been our life lately.
I love him deeply, but it’s more than that. He’s my best friend, my safe place, the one person who sees every part of me and stays. In the hush of the bathroom, with only the sound of water and our quiet laughter, I let myself believe that maybe, finally, we can just be happy.
After the bath, Luke lifts me gently from the tub, wrapping me in a warm towel before carrying me to the bedroom.
He lays me down and stretches out beside me, his body fitting against mine as if we were made for this closeness.
The room is quiet except for the soft rustle of sheets and the steady rhythm of our breathing.
He brushes damp hair from my face, his touch lingering, reverent.
We move together slowly, savoring the quiet intimacy, the way our bodies communicate what words can’t.
Every kiss, every caress, feels like a promise—of comfort, of safety, of a future we’re finally allowed to imagine.
There’s a tenderness in the way he holds me, as if he’s memorizing the shape of my happiness, and I find myself letting go of the world outside, if only for tonight.
Later, tangled in each other’s arms, I listen to the steady beat of his heart beneath my cheek.
I feel his hand tracing lazy circles on my back, grounding me, reminding me that I’m not alone.
The darkness feels like a safe cocoon with just the two of us, but something inside me aches to trust it fully.
I shift, lifting my face to look at him in the low light. "Do you ever get scared, Luke? Not of the fights, but about... us? Of losing this?" My voice wavers slightly, more vulnerable than I mean for it to be.
He tightens his arms around me and is quiet for a breath. "Every night," he confesses, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. "You’re the first person I’ve ever let this close. Sometimes I wake up afraid it’s all about to slip away. Not the outside world or fights or work—just you. Losing you."
Something in me unsettles, raw. "Me too," I whisper, and lay my palm flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat pick up. "Sometimes I think maybe I don’t deserve you. Maybe I want too much. I’m terrified I’ll mess it up, or that if you see all of me, you’ll realize you could have someone easier. "
He shakes his head with a slow, aching certainty. "There’s not a single part of you I want less. I think what scares me most is how much I hope for with you," he murmurs. "Things I never let myself dream about until now."
I thread my fingers through his and rest my forehead against his. "Let’s promise to be scared together, then," I say, my voice barely more than breath. "And to hope together. Even if it’s messy."
Just before sleep claims me, I hear him whisper, "I don’t deserve you. But I can never let you go." His words settle over me, warm and certain, and I know he means them.
In the morning, sunlight spills across the bed.
I wake to find Luke still asleep, his arm draped over my waist, his breathing deep and even.
For a moment, I just watch him, overwhelmed by the quiet joy of belonging—to him, with him.
When he finally stirs and finds me smiling at him, he grins back, and I realize that these ordinary, gentle mornings are what I’ve been longing for all along.
As soon as we finish breakfast, Luke’s phone starts ringing, and then mine.
We each answer and immediately look at each other.
It seems our dinner was indeed fodder for the tabloids, and our picture has been all over the news this morning.
Our friends and family call one after the other to confirm the news is true and to congratulate us.
Apparently, there was at least one rumor that I am pregnant because Linda demanded to know if we were having a baby.
“Do I look fat?” I ask as I turn sideways and examine my stomach in the full-length mirror.
“No, you don’t look fat. At all. Why would you even think that?” Luke asks.
“Because they said I’m pregnant! Do I look pregnant?” I poke my stomach out and pull my shirt tight against me. “That’s it. I’m exercising more.”
Luke laughs and tackles me to the couch. “Exercise all you want–you’re not fat. You’re fine, woman!”
The rest of the week is pretty much the same. More pictures of Luke and me at the restaurant. All different, unflattering angles, and more speculation of why he proposed. So many vicious rumors about us both, and most of them are not even based on a sliver of truth.
The promotional ads for the talk show have begun airing.
For now, they’re limited to footage from my birthday celebration and, inevitably, those old psychiatric hospital photos.
I’m relieved they’d already cut the ads before the latest wave of rumors and headlines—though I know it’s only a matter of time before those images make their way in, too.
Jackson must be watching, and for once, I hope he feels a fraction of the dread I do.
On the drive to the studio, the city blurs past my window, my mind racing with what-ifs.
By this time next week, the interview will have aired, and the narrative will be out of my hands.
I know they’ll re-edit the promos, probably splicing in clips from tonight and, no doubt, the photos from the night Luke proposed.
Now, in the waiting room, the atmosphere is a strange mix of nerves and routine.
The staff moves around me with practiced efficiency—one offers coffee, another touches up my makeup, a third fluffs my hair and checks my wardrobe.
I catch the way their eyes linger, not quite meeting mine, and realize they’re all glancing at my stomach, silently speculating.
No one asks, but the question hangs in the air, unspoken and heavy.
I sit quietly, hands folded in my lap, trying to steady my breathing. The lights are too bright, the air tinged with hairspray and nerves. I remind myself why I’m here: to tell my story, in my own words, before anyone else can twist it again.
Before the audience is ushered in, Lindsey Blair walks me through how the show will unfold.
She’ll introduce me, and I’ll step onto the stage at her cue.
She hands me a stack of pre-printed questions—an hour to review, though I know the real test will come when the floor opens to the audience.
Only the most compelling questions and answers will make the final cut, but I gently but firmly remind her that I have the final say on what airs. She doesn’t like it, but she nods.
A knock at the door—her assistant, letting me know I have two minutes.
My palms are slick with sweat; I wipe them on a towel, trying to steady my breathing.
The corridor to the backstage area feels impossibly long, each step echoing in my ears.
I pause just behind the curtain, listening as Lindsey begins her introduction, my heart pounding in time with her words.
The applause is a wall of sound as I step onto the stage, the lights overhead hot and blinding.
I force a steady smile, my heart pounding as I wave to the audience and take my seat beside Lindsey Blair.
Her handshake is warm, but her eyes are sharp—hungry for the story, for the exclusive, for the moment that will make her segment unforgettable.
She welcomes me, her voice smooth and practiced. “We had so many people who wanted to be part of the audience today that we couldn’t take them all. That has never happened before. Needless to say, many people are interested in your story. So, for the sake of time, let’s get started.”
She doesn’t waste a second. “Tell us, Andi. Did you attempt to murder your foster father?”
The question wasn’t on the list I reviewed an hour ago. I feel the air shift, the audience holding its breath. Lindsey’s eyes glint with anticipation, certain she’s caught me off guard. For a heartbeat, I want to flinch, to look away, but I force myself to meet her gaze, steady and unblinking.
“Yes. I certainly did,” I reply matter-of-factly. Then I smile knowingly at Lindsay as her jaw drops open and she stammers for the next question.
“Care to elaborate?”
I was expecting something much harder hitting from this Barbara Walters wannabe, but this question actually puts me in a much better position to tell the entire story first and then let others ask me specific questions.
So I start from the very beginning of what I consider my story, my parents’ death, and walk them through every step of my life until today. I held nothing back. I told them all about my mom’s cousin giving me up to the state and how I was bounced to numerous foster homes.