Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
ANDI
The days after the interview feel like living inside a blender.
Not because I regret what I said. I don’t. I’d do it again with the same steady voice and the same unblinking stare.
It’s everything that follows.
Every station. Every blog. Every late-night host with a smirk. They don’t just want my story. They want a version of me they can package. A headline they can sell. A villain they can point to, so they don’t have to sit in the discomfort of what I accused a powerful man of doing.
Some of it is laughable. Some of it is pure poison.
Luke calls it a smear campaign, but smear implies mess. This is organized. This is coordinated. This is a machine.
I’m learning quickly how it works. They use “concern” as their mask. Concern for the state. Concern for due process. Concern for “the children.”
That last one makes my teeth grind. Because they don’t mean the children who lived in that house. They mean the children at the youth center.
That’s the angle. The one that actually matters. The one that could take my work away from me, shut my mouth, and convince the public that I’m too unstable to be believed.
I’m sitting on the couch with Luke when the first “biographical exposé” hits the national afternoon programming. It’s presented like a serious report, with a serious anchor and serious music, as if the network is doing America a public service by warning them about me.
A montage plays. Photos of me at fifteen. Photos of me leaving the hospital. Photos of me at my father’s birthday party. A shot from outside my house that makes my skin crawl because I never approved it or posed for it.
Then the narrator’s tone shifts, gentle and pitying. “Andi Morgan, the troubled heiress…”
Troubled. Like I’m a feral dog.
The story frames my parents’ death as the beginning of my “unstable spiral.” It frames foster care as a gift I rejected. It frames the psychiatric hospital as proof that I’m unreliable. It frames my accusation as revenge born from mental illness.
Then the screen cuts to an interview with one of my former foster families. The one that gave me scars that I still hide without thinking. They sit in a tidy living room with an American flag in the corner and talk about how hard they “tried.”
They call me manipulative.
They call me violent.
They call me a liar.
A doctor appears next. Blurred slightly around the edges, like the network is trying to make him look cautious and ethical. He says just enough to poison the well without admitting anything concrete.
Luke’s body tightens beside me, like he’s holding himself down with sheer will. His jaw works. His hands curl. I can tell he wants to break the TV. I don’t. I’ve learned something about lies. They don’t die when you rage at them.
They die when you refuse to flinch.
I mute the volume and watch the visuals only. The “concerned” anchor. The sympathetic lighting. The careful editing.
The way they never say the word “rape” without turning it into “allegations.” The way they never say “foster children” without saying “claims.” And then, like a blade slid quietly under my ribs, they shifted to the youth center.
A split screen shows me walking into the building on one side and stock footage of children playing on the other.
“Questions are now being raised…”
Luke’s hand finds my thigh, gripping hard enough to ground me.
On the screen, a local parent appears—face blurred, voice distorted, as if the truth itself is something to be hidden.
“I’m not saying she did anything,” the parent says. “But she admitted she tried to kill a man. How can she be around minors?”
The words hang in the air, heavy and unyielding. I sit frozen, barely breathing, as the accusation settles over me. It isn’t really a question—it’s a verdict, delivered for anyone who needs a simple story to believe.
I know how this works. Repeat a lie often enough, and it becomes the truth for people who don’t want to look any deeper.
I unmute the TV just in time to hear the next blow: “…and sources say the youth center’s partnership agreements and volunteer access protocols are now under review.”
Beside me, Luke mutters a curse, his jaw tight with anger.
I force my voice to stay steady, even as my hands tremble in my lap. “That was fast.”
He looks at me like he wants to wrap me in his arms and hide me somewhere that doesn’t have television signals. “They’re going after the only thing you’ve built that isn’t money.”
“Because it’s the only thing that proves they’re wrong about what they’re calling me,” I say.
My throat tightens, but I don’t let the emotion take the wheel.
“If they can remove me from the youth center, they can say I’m dangerous.
Unfit. A threat. And then everything I said becomes ‘the story of a crazy girl.’”
Luke’s gaze sharpens. “We’re not letting that happen.”
“We?” I glance at him.
He doesn’t blink. “We.”
For a moment, it’s tempting to let myself rest in that word. To just be held inside it. But reality doesn’t pause.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table. Another unknown number call. I ignore it. It buzzes again. Unknown again. Then my home phone rings.
Luke’s body shifts instantly, a protective reflex sharpening him into something dangerous.
I answer anyway. “Hello?”
Silence. Then a click, and the line goes dead. I stare at the receiver for a second longer than I should. Not because I’m scared. Because I’m calculating.
Luke watches my face. “Hang-up?”
“Yeah.” I put the receiver down slowly. “Not for the first time.”
He’s been trying to bait whoever it is into speaking, cursing into the silence as if sheer force could draw them out.
But the calls keep coming—always from a blocked number, always hanging up just as I answer.
Each ring slices through the quiet, a reminder that someone is out there, listening.
Watching. Measuring my every move. I can feel their gaze, invisible yet constant, crawling across my skin.
The intent is clear: to make me feel exposed, unsettled, and never truly alone.
I already feel that without the calls.
Luke shifts closer. “This isn’t just tabloids trying to get a word from you anymore, Andi. This is cold, calculated intimidation and harassment.”
“I know.”
He studies me like he’s trying to find where the damage is forming. “Tell me you’re not carrying this alone.”
I exhale slowly. “I’m not.” Not anymore.
But I don’t say that part out loud because I don’t want to sound like I’m begging for him to stay. I don’t want my love to sound like fear. He takes my hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing my knuckles one by one like it’s a vow he’s making without words.
I let my voice go quiet. “What do we do about the youth center?”
Luke’s eyes go cold. “We get ahead of it.”
That night, we call Pop, Mack, and the center's director. Not a dramatic conference call. Not a panic spiral. We are developing our own plan of attack, just like we would after studying an opponent in the ring.
The director, Ms. Hargrove, sounds exhausted when she answers. “Andi, I didn’t want you to hear this from the news.”
“Tell me,” I say.
There’s a pause, then the truth drops in my lap like a brick.
“We got a formal complaint,” she says. “Anonymous. It alleges you’re mentally unstable and unsafe around minors. It alleges you have ‘a history of violent delusion’ and ‘a pattern of manipulation.’ It alleges you’re using the center for publicity.”
My nails dig into my palm so hard it stings. Luke’s hand tightens around mine.
I keep my tone calm. “And what happens now?”
“We’re being pressured to suspend your access temporarily until a review is completed,” Ms. Hargrove admits. “I argued against it. I’m still arguing. But the board is nervous. The parents are calling nonstop.”
“Suspension,” I repeat softly, tasting the word. It tastes like gagging tape. “From my own youth center. Amazing.”
Luke leans closer. “Who’s pressuring you?”
Ms. Hargrove hesitates. “I can’t prove anything. But the calls… the language… it feels coordinated. Like someone gave them a script.”
Of course they did.
I close my eyes for half a second, then open them again. “What do you need from me?”
“Documentation,” she says immediately. “Anything formal you have. Your role. Your funding. Your hours. Your background checks. Anything that shows we followed protocol.”
“I can get it to you tonight,” I say.
“Andi,” Ms. Hargrove adds, voice thick with worry, “if they force my hand… I need you to know I’m trying. You’ve done more for those kids than some parents ever will.”
My throat burns. “I know. Thank you.”
When the call ends, the silence in the room feels heavier than before.
Luke’s voice comes out low. “They’re not just trying to discredit you. They’re trying to isolate you. They’re trying to make even those who believe in you start to question you.”
I swallow hard. “They want to take away the place where I’m strongest.”
Luke’s gaze doesn’t move from my face. “Then we make it the place where we’re loudest.”
I stare at him. “Meaning?”
He takes a breath. It’s the same breath he takes before he steps into a fight. “We prepare for the review like it’s a trial,” he says. “Because that’s what it is.”
A chill runs down my spine. Not fear, but iron-clad resolve. Because I know something now that I didn’t know before. They’re scared. If they weren’t, they wouldn’t be trying to erase me from children’s lives. They’d let me talk. They’d let me look unstable on my own.
But they can’t.
So they’re building a case. Which means they think I’m building one too. And maybe I am.
Luke
The day after the youth center call, I head to the gym earlier than usual.
Not because I want to hit something. I do.
But because I need to move. Thinking makes me dangerous in the wrong way lately.
It puts my anger in my hands, and if I’m not careful, those hands will do something I can’t take back.
Mack is already there, watching Shane work the bag, arms crossed like he’s guarding an empire.
He looks at me and immediately reads my face. “They’re coming for the center,” he says, not asking.
I nod. “Anonymous complaint. Board pressure. Parent panic. The whole nine yards.”
Mack’s jaw tightens. “Cowards.”
Shane slows, sweat running down his neck. “They're trying to ban her?”
“Temporarily,” I answer. “Pending a review, so they say.”
Shane’s eyes flash. “That’s how it starts. ‘Temporary’ turns into ‘indefinite’ once people get comfortable with her being gone.”
Mack’s gaze is hard. “Not if we don’t let it.”
He steps closer, his voice dropping to the tone he uses when he’s done talking and ready to act. “You listen to me, Luke. They’re going to try to make her look unstable. That means they’ll provoke her, push her, and make her react. Exactly the way an opponent in the ring would to wear you down.”
I exhale sharply. “I know.”
Mack nods once. “Then your job is to keep her steady.”
My chest tightens. “My job is to keep her alive.”
Mack doesn’t disagree.
Instead, he asks the question he’s been circling since the proposal. “Y’all set a date?”
I stare at him. “Not yet.”
Mack grunts. Not approval. Not disapproval. A warning that time doesn’t pause for chaos.
“She wants to wait,” I add. “Until this is settled.”
Mack’s eyes hold mine for a long moment. “Then settle it.”
It’s not cruelty. It’s faith. He believes Andi can survive this. He just wants her to stop living with one foot braced for impact.
I shower and head home early so I can be there when the live show airs. Andi tries to act like she’s fine. She’s not. Her hands are restless. Her mouth keeps tightening. She keeps forcing a calm expression on her face, like it’s a discipline.
I sit beside her and pull her close, letting her tuck into my shoulder. “I’m here,” I say quietly.
“I know,” she whispers. Then, after a beat, “Don’t leave.”
It’s not dramatic. It’s not begging. It’s the truth of the fear that lives deep inside her. Her past damaged her, and I understand that because of my own. I’ll reassure her with the same words and actions as many times as it takes.
My stomach twists. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The TV flickers, and Lindsay Blair’s face fills the screen. This time, it isn’t pre-taped polish. This time it’s live. And live means no one gets to hide behind editing.
Andi sits up straighter. Every muscle in her body goes tight. I slide my arm around her and hold on. Whatever comes next, we’ll take it together.