Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Shae
Aweek after Declan’s death, I glide into Hearth I’ve always preferred the sound of broken souls over laughter anyway.
Blake is here too, camera on his shoulder like a predator’s eye. He leans close and murmurs, “Go for emotional depth. Isabelle cracks easiest.”
Emotional depth. What a quaint term for exploitation.
I crouch beside Isabelle at the craft table while she tries to paint, hands trembling. “Need help mixing colors?”
She nods, barely. Her voice is a breath. “They say blue makes people calm.”
“True colors—calming or not—tell stories,” I murmur. “What’s yours, Isabelle?”
Her brush pauses. “I… like stories.”
I smile. “We should write one together.”
We work in silence for a few long moments. Her colors bleed together; mine stay precise. I press, gentle as a thumb on a bruise. “Tell me about home.”
Her walls crumble. “Mom leaves. Takes pills. Dad… he’s always angry. This place—here—it’s the only time I feel seen.”
Ah. A crack.
“Seen is rare,” I say softly. “But deserved.” I brush a stray lock behind her ear—maternal, almost. She melts. I file it away.
At the end of the hall, I catch a man half-hidden in the doorway, voice breaking on the phone. He’s asking his son’s school secretary for science-fair photos to use at Gram’s funeral.
I step in like I belong there. “I lost someone too,” I say, voice soft enough to caress. “I know how it hollows you out.”
He looks up, jagged hope flickering behind his eyes.
“I’m going out for coffee in a bit,” I offer. “I can bring you back some. Then we can look at photos together.”
He nods. I give him my glossy I understand smile. Another partnership, neatly sealed.
One of the other volunteers flits around me like a moth—ever-present. Useful. Annoying.
She corners me in the supply room. “Shae—what you did—the anonymous donation to Hearth & Hands—it was so generous. Everyone is talking about it, you’ve already done so much. You’ve been a godsend.”
Her voice is laced with sugar. It makes me want to choke.
“I’m just glad I can be of help,” I say. “The community here has given me so much, I just wanted to give what little back I can.”
The truth?
I haven’t donated a dime to this sad place. It’s interesting that someone did and they’ve all attributed the generosity to me, though. If they only knew.
At lunch, Blake corrals me like an eager assistant director. “Focus on Lila—she’s your arc. Redemption, frailty, faith. The audience eats that up.”
Of course.
I nod, stirring my soup. “Got it.”
Over the next few days, I begin subtle sabotage.
With Isabelle, I plant the idea that a foster family might prefer a younger child with less baggage. She shuts down completely, convinced they’ll pass on her the second she slips. She clings to me.
“I’ll always be here,” I whisper, and she believes it.
With Mr. Kavanaugh, I ask if there’s room for grief therapy. He says there is, but he’s afraid to go alone. So I suggest I can sit with him. He looks at me like I’ve handed him oxygen.
With Lila, I let it “slip” that Dawn is considering replacing her for gala planning—that she’s “too emotionally entangled” with clients. I watch Lila stumble, heart cracking in a way that reads beautifully on camera.
Blake captures everything with that relentless lens. His proximity makes me dizzy—lover, accomplice. He doesn’t soothe the fire. He feeds it. “The way you comforted her mid-breakdown,” he murmurs, pleased. “Oscars-worthy.”
I inhale. Thriving.
And then everything snaps.
Isabelle tears down the hall, sobbing that the foster parents canceled. She’s running out of time, out of options.
I catch her by the shoulders and pull her into an empty office.
“You’re not losing anyone,” I hiss, voice low, eyes cold. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
She clings to me. I let her.
Mr. Thompson hears the crying and steps in. “What’s going on?”
“There are worse things than grief, Mr. Thompson,” I purr. “Abandonment. Betrayal. But Isabelle’s got me.”
He nods, relieved. A man soothed by a story he wants to believe.
Meanwhile, Lila is kneeling in the kitchen, tears dripping into her sleeves, convinced she’s worthless. “Shae, I ruined everything.”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” I whisper, brushing her cheek with a fingertip. “Faith isn’t about never falling. It’s about knowing you’ll be caught.”
She breathes like she’s been saved.
Blake’s eye is hungry.
“I’ve got enough here,” he murmurs. “But we can go deeper next week.”
I nod. More crusades to orchestrate.
Walking home, I think of Kelly. Of being written off. Of every lonely child abandoned by a parent—every soft soul waiting for a hero.
A laugh rises in my throat, shaky and triumphant.
I’m their hero.
Except I’m the villain too.
That night, Blake hands me a cup of tea and watches me, dark and still.
“You’re brilliant,” he says again. “You build empires out of trauma and hope.”
I sip. “What about you? You’re stained too, aren’t you?”
He crosses to the window. “I caused a car accident when I was a teenager,” he says quietly. “I was drunk. No one else survived.” His voice drops. “That’s why I’d follow you to hell.”
I touch his cheek. “Deal.”
We watch the town sleep—wreaths on doors, silent flags on porches, summer music festival banners gathering dust.
I kiss him hard. No forgiveness. Just acknowledgment.
Later, I crawl into bed, body electric.
Harper will bring her warm plans—retreats, healing, Costa Rica. She has no idea what she’s cultivating.
I check my phone to calm down, and a new message scrolls across the screen:
“Don’t let the spotlight fool you. I see the darkness.”
I don’t know who sent it. But I know it wasn’t Declan. I could have sworn he was behind the ominous texts.
But I do know this:
They’re watching.
And I like being watched. It means they’re afraid.
Good.
Fear is a mirror.
And I am the reflection.