Chapter 9
RANGE (LIZ)
The car glides to the curb on Fifth Avenue, right at the base of the Met steps. The air changes immediately—voices rising, flashes firing, anticipation thickening the summer night.
Leo steps out first. A valet appears out of nowhere. Without breaking stride, he hands over the keys.
The door opens on my side.
His hand appears. The heat of the night hits my skin. His palm slides to the small of my back, steady and deliberate, and I feel myself lock into form—posture, breath, awareness.
We move toward the steps together, pace matched. Flashes go off so fast they stop feeling separate and turn into weather.
Instinct takes over. Chin up. Shoulders down. Core tight. Don’t rush the step. Own the lane. Cameras used to mean starter pistols, not gossip columns, but the body doesn’t care what kind of spotlight it’s under. It only knows when to rise to it.
A voice cuts through the noise.
“Lionheart! Over here!”
Another stacks on top of it. “Leo, who’s the lucky lady?”
He doesn’t pause or look rattled. “This is Liz,” he says calmly, as if we’re being introduced at a dinner party instead of the foot of the Met. His hand stays at my back. “My girlfriend.”
I lift my chin and give the cameras a brief, controlled smile. Not warm enough to invite a follow-up.
Cameras surge closer anyway.
“How long have you been together?”
“When’s the wedding?”
“You people move fast,” I say lightly, without breaking stride.
A few of them laugh. The tension loosens by a fraction. Enough.
“Is this why you snapped the other night?”
Leo angles us slightly as we climb, positioning me where the light hits. I’m framed against his chest, his arm a solid line at my waist.
“Eyes up, Flash,” he murmurs.
My chin lifts automatically.
The camera clicking intensifies—light exploding, voices overlapping. It should feel overwhelming.
Instead, something colder snaps into place. The noise. The lights. The angle of every watching face. It isn’t so different from stepping onto a track with a crowd waiting to see whether you own the moment or let it own you.
Leo’s hand at my back helps. The rest is training. Breathe. Lift your chin. Give them a version they can’t mishandle.
“You’re doing great,” he says quietly.
The glass doors close behind us, and the roar dulls to an elegant hum—classical strings, low voices, the soft echo of heels on marble. The main hall opens wide and luminous. Sculptures line the perimeter. A suspended installation glows overhead.
Leo never leaves my side.
He scans the room in controlled sweeps—entrances, exits, crowd clusters—the same way he reads an opponent. But every time his attention passes over the space, it comes back to me.
Jessica materializes near the central staircase in a fitted black dress. Her eyes sweep over us—my gown, his hand at my waist, the distance between our bodies—and her smile sharpens with satisfaction.
“Perfect,” she murmurs. “You two photograph extremely well.”
He doesn’t bother confirming it. His hand stays where it is.
Jessica leans in closer. “Sponsors are upstairs. Cameras near the balcony. No direct questions about the club incident—we pre-blocked that.” Her gaze cuts to him. “Stay together. No straying.”
“We’re aligned,” he says.
We move into the room.
Leo keeps that light, guiding hold at my waist. He matches my steps without me needing to adjust.
I hate that I know how to do this. Eye contact.
Firm handshake. Warm smile. Exit before anyone feels invited to linger.
The choreography comes back faster than I want it to, some old public-self waking up under silk and polite laughter.
Not Lillian exactly. Not Liz either. Something sharper.
A woman who knows how to hold a room even when she resents every second of it.
“This is Liz.”
“Liz, nice to meet you.”
“So happy for you two.”
Someone squeezes my hand and says, “You make a beautiful couple.” I feel it happening in real time—the narrative tightening, assumptions layering themselves over the truth.
A photographer passes, camera raised. Leo’s thumb traces a brief, unconscious line along my waist. My body notices before I can stop it.
A man in his early thirties steps into our path as we approach the bar. Expensive suit. Confident smile. Former athlete, if I had to guess—the kind of build that comes from years of disciplined training and not quite knowing when to stop competing.
“Leo Carver,” he says, extending a hand. “Great fight the other night.”
Leo shakes it. “Appreciate it.”
When his attention shifts to me, his smile warms, polite at first, but then recognition flickers behind his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he says, tilting his head. “Have we met? You look incredibly familiar.”
I know what’s coming a second before he says it.
“I don’t think so,” I say carefully.
He doesn’t let it go. His gaze stays on my face, scanning—hairline, posture, the way my weight settles on one hip. I can almost see the gears turning.
Then his face lights up.
“Wait, LSU, right? Track and field?” He snaps his fingers, grin widening. “Lillian Richardson. That’s it. I ran for Florida. We competed at, what was it, SEC Championships?”
The old name lands with impact.
“You absolutely destroyed the hundred that year,” he goes on, animated now. “That celebration? You were unreal,” he says, almost laughing now. “Nobody could touch you.”
He flicks his hand through the air—the exact angle, the exact snap. The way I used to order the world to look at me at the finish line.
For one brutal second, the room tilts.
The old hit of being seen and knowing exactly how to stand under it. Training answers before thought does. Shoulders back. Weight balanced. Face neutral.
I spent years burying Lillian Richardson. Apparently she still knows how to make an entrance. Standing next to me, Leo feels different suddenly—less handler, more man discovering there are versions of me he hasn’t even begun to account for.
“That was a long time ago,” I say, calm enough to surprise myself.
Leo’s hand firms once at my back, not enough to read as possession to anyone else, just enough that I feel the shift.
His whole body seems to narrow. Not bigger. Tighter.
“And not a conversation she’s having tonight,” he says. Still calm. Too calm. The kind of voice that means he’s closer to losing patience than he wants anyone to know.
The man blinks. Glances between us.
“Right.” He recovers fast. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to ambush you.”
“No problem,” I say before Leo has to. Light. Final.
The man takes the exit I give him and doesn’t look back.
Panic doesn’t get all the way in. The old instinct beats it back: hold your face, hold your posture, don’t give the room more than it earned.
Four years.
Four years of burying that name, and one stupid conversation is enough to make it ring in my bones again.
I lock my expression down again.
“Let’s get some air,” Leo says, guiding me toward the elevators before anyone else can circle back, before the moment can grow legs.
I let him.
For now.
The rooftop air is soft, edged with the last sweep of sunset. Conversations rise and fall around us—glass clinks, laughter. None of it quite reaches me yet.
Leo doesn’t ask where I want to go. He guides me to a quiet corner near the railing, away from the main flow of bodies, giving me room and letting the city do some of the work.
“Let’s stop here.”
Only then does he step in beside me, shoulder near mine, broad enough to block the room without cornering me.
It’s effective.
I don’t love how quickly my body registers that.
Lillian Richardson.
The name echoes again. Not like a threat, but like an old photograph shoved into my hands without warning.
“Liz.” Leo’s voice is low, steady. “Look at me.”
I turn my head slightly.
“He won’t bother you again.”
I laugh once without humor. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.” Absolute certainty. “Because if he does, I’ll handle it.”
That finally gets a reaction out of me: a short, incredulous laugh.
“You can’t handle every person who remembers I existed.”
“Watch me.”
I raise my eyebrows, but his face stays level. He’s not joking. I turn fully toward the railing, placing my palms on the wood.
“It’s not a big deal. Just… annoying. Being reminded of a version of myself I deliberately left behind.”
“So you pretend she never existed?”
I glance back at him. “I didn’t say that.”
“What did you say?”
“I said she’s not who I am anymore.”
He studies me for a moment, then shifts subtly, taking the outside edge so the crowd has to go through him before it gets anywhere near me.
“You know what I think?” he asks quietly.
I already don’t like the answer. “What?”
“I think you don’t want other people deciding who you are.”
“I’ve spent four years deciding exactly that.”
“By disappearing?”
I turn my head to look at him. “By choosing.”
He studies me, recalibrating.
“Once people name you,” I continue, keeping my voice even, “they start interacting with the version they recognize. They expect things. They excuse things. They forgive things you won’t tolerate anymore.”
He takes that in.
“I didn’t erase Lillian. I retired her.” I hold his gaze. “She lived in a world where people saw talent, body, performance, and decided that entitled them to the rest.” I turn back to the skyline. “Liz decides what the room gets.”
Silence stretches.
“Liz gets to move through the world without explaining herself. She doesn’t apologize for other people’s weaknesses. She doesn’t hand over pieces of herself just because someone’s looking.”
“That sounds… controlled.”
“It’s intentional.”
“And safe?”
“Yes.”
His voice softens, not challenging now, just curious. “But you don’t think it costs you anything?”
I consider that. “It costs me plenty. Everything costs something. I chose to pay in exchange for freedom.”
I stare out at the skyline, lights everywhere, lives in motion, people not constantly editing themselves.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, voice lower now, more careful, “you didn’t look helpless out there.”