Chapter 31 #2
“When I was inside,” I say, letting inside land like a gavel, “I used to close my eyes and picture this. Not the lights or the flowers—those are nice—but the faces. Yours. People who believed me before a judge did. People who risked their reputations to say, ‘This isn’t right.’ You saved me.”
I swallow; my eyes fall photogenically.
“And I promised that if I ever got out, I’d spend every breath making sure no one else loses years because a system decided they weren’t worth the ink to correct the record.”
A murmur. A swell. Hands meeting hands. I nod like I’m accepting a vow.
“But I learned something else,” I say, lowering my voice. “Not everyone who hates you wears a uniform. Some wear masks. They hide behind usernames and modulated voices and the word anonymous. They sell your pain as content.”
The room tightens. I can feel Harper’s panic fizzing near the front. I keep my eyes sweeping everyone else.
“If you want the truth about me,” I say, “you can ask me. I’ll tell you what matters: that women are assaulted and then doubted; that children are broken and then discarded; that I survived and I shouldn’t have had to. If you want to support survivors, support organizations like Hearth people forgive a sinner dressed like a saint.
Near the emergency exit, my phone buzzes against my thigh. Another text:
Cute speech. So clean. Shame about what’s under your nails.
A chill threads through me. I keep walking anyway, thousand-watt smile locked on.
Blake sidles in close without breaking stride, camera angling for my jawline. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“That obvious?” I ask.
“Only to me.” His voice drops. “You think The Watcher and the anonymous guard are connected to whoever’s sending messages?”
“Either that,” I say, “or we’re finally interesting enough to build a universe.”
“Cinematic,” he murmurs, pleased.
Across the room, Harper stands alone outside the donor halo, staring at her phone, jaw tight.
Blue light makes her look like a woman about to confess on camera—not realizing she already has.
She senses me, looks up, and in that brief, unguarded second, I see the question cross her face like a dark bird: What if they’re right about you?
I give her the softest smile I own. The one that says I forgive you for doubting, little lamb. She nods, guilt flashing before she pockets her phone.
A journalist with a notepad drifts over. “Ms. Halston,” she says primly. “Quick word?”
“Of course,” I say, tilting toward her. “Make it delicious.”
She lifts her pen. “There’s talk tonight. A rival podcast claims your prison riot injuries were staged. That a guard was involved. Crime forums claim the death of Declan Ridge was more than an accident—”
“So many men were involved,” I say gently. “Does your outlet want to talk about their violence or my survival?”
Her eyes flutter. “We’d like your comment, on the record.”
“My record?” I beam. “The one I no longer have?”
She blinks. I keep going. “Here’s my comment: I wish anonymous cowards were as dedicated to helping survivors as they are to trending. But I’m sure the ad revenue is comforting.”
“So you deny—”
“I heal,” I cut in, and squeeze her forearm like she’s my distressed niece. “Enjoy the cupcakes.”
I drift on. People part. Some smile with their whole faces; some don’t quite meet my eyes. Lilac and warm sugar collide with the metallic edge of resentment.
Lila returns with a clipboard, giddy and breathless. “We hit our goal,” she says, tears finally jumping. “We did it.”
“You did it,” I correct, patting her cheek. “I’m just the ghost in white.”
She laughs, hiccups a sob. “Harper wants to do a toast with you and Blake for the doc’s socials.”
“Tell her two minutes,” I say. “Bathroom.”
I slip into the small hallway, past framed photos of other events where other women smiled through things. The bathroom is deserted; fluorescent light buzzes like a nervous habit.
I lock a stall, perch on the closed lid, and pull out my phone.
Me: Who is this?
Unknown: Miss me?
Me: Hardly. You’re not that interesting.
Three blinking dots. I imagine a bored opportunist chasing notoriety like a moth to a porch light.
Unknown: The world will soon know what you did to get out. The Watcher already knows.
Me: Then why are you still texting me?
Unknown: Because I like to watch you squirm. Because I was the last thing you saw at 6:58 a.m. every morning when I said “be good,” and you were. Until you weren’t.
So it’s a guard. Or someone pretending to be one, anyway.
Me: I’ve never been good. That was the point.
Unknown: Tell your videographer boyfriend that the more he paints you a saint, the worse this will end for him too.
I stare at the screen. So that’s the motive. He thinks a threat makes him a man.
I take a photo of myself—chin tilted, dress perfect, pupils steady as bullets—and send it back.
Me: Next time you see me, bring a better story.
Dot-dot-dot. Then nothing.
I flush the empty toilet, wash my hands, reapply lipstick the color of a bruise blooming.
When I push back into the hall, the hall hums higher—money pledged, desserts eaten, survivors hugged. Harper and Blake stand near the dais with flutes in hand, trying to look like people who don’t practice eye contact in the mirror.
“Ready?” Harper asks, pitched bright.
“Always,” I say. I lift my glass. “To stories that heal.”
“To second chances,” Blake adds, the camera eye swallowing us whole.
Harper hesitates, then: “To seeing people as they really are.”
“Cheers,” I say, my smile slicing a perfect white line through the air.
We clink. The camera drinks it. The followers inhale it.
I stand in the center of my chosen universe, dressed like a myth, loved like a weapon. Beneath silk and sugar, I keep the panic where it belongs: buried under my smile.
You want the real Shae Halston?
Fine.
Watch closely.
You never know who’s watching back.