Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Shae
I’m halfway through brushing on a second coat of lipstick—shade: Forgive Me, Father—when Blake’s voice cuts through the bathroom door.
“You seen Harper?”
“She’s probably outside crying into a potted fern,” I call back. “It’s her default setting when she’s not apologizing for things no one remembers.”
“The Watcher vanished,” Blake says the second I step out of the powder room.
“Not figuratively, not in that melodramatic offline for my mental health influencer way. Gone. Poof. Instagram, TikTok, YouTube—scrubbed. Even the podcast hosting site. Archives deleted. No redirect, no goodbye post, not even a be kind to yourself graphic.”
“What?” Shock flickers over my face before I catch it. “One minute they’re the voice in everyone’s ear telling them to watch me burn. The next minute… static?”
“And they left a parting gift.” His mouth tightens.
“Only Harper got it. Her phone pinged right when you were shaking hands with that big Hearth & Hands donor. I saw her read it from over your shoulder. Saw the color drain out of her like someone pulled the plug. Her eyes found mine. Then she pocketed the phone like it was a live grenade.”
“Shit.” I lean into the wall, cool plaster against heat. “I was wrong about her,” I say, and hate how quickly it comes. “I can’t make the same mistake twice.”
My mind runs its old routes—Bishop, the pivot, the betrayal. Then the new one: Blake. The hours. The access. The way he’s always there with a lens and a reason. My stomach tries to turn it into panic. I don’t let it.
I push past him down the hallway. He watches me like I’m both his masterpiece and his mess.
Blake doesn’t care about redemption. He cares about footage.
He films me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he blinks, and I appreciate the simplicity of that.
He doesn’t ask me to be good. He asks me to be interesting.
“You look—”
“Don’t say radiant.” I head for the side door. “Radiant is code for you’re about to lose your shit in public.”
He follows. Long strides. He catches my arm before I can step into the parking lot. “Hey. We can fix this.”
“Can we?” I ask. “Because the one person keeping me relevant through outrage culture just ghosted the entire internet. And now they’re whispering in Harper’s ear like they’re auditioning for her conscience.”
Blake blinks. “This may not be an issue like you think—”
I shake my head. “Oh, it is. She didn’t tell me. Which means it’s bad. Which means she’s hiding something.”
His brows knit. “Or it means she’s trying to protect you—”
“Protect me?” I bark a laugh. “No. That’s not how this works. I protect me. I’ve been doing it since before she learned how to hold a microphone.”
I’m moving again—past smokers in sequins, past waiters stealing five minutes of peace.
“She’s disposable,” I say, flat. “They’re all disposable. Harper, Lila, the donors, the local paper. I can get new ones. Better ones.”
“Shae.”
“I will burn this whole redemption project to the ground before I let someone else narrate my downfall.”
“Shae—”
“I’ll cut her off,” I snap. “Her, you, anyone who thinks they can pull a string and make me dance. I survived thirty-six months in a cage. I’ll survive this without anyone’s hand up my back.”
Blake steps in front of me, blocking my path. His voice drops to that low, careful register that makes people lean in.
“You’re not thinking straight.”
“I’m thinking perfectly straight,” I bite back. “If The Watcher’s gone, my leverage is gone. And if Harper starts doubting me—”
“She’s not doubting you,” he cuts in. “She’s spooked. That’s different.”
My nails dig into my palms. “Spooked turns into silent. Silent turns into gone. That’s how people work.”
“That’s not how I work.”
I freeze. His eyes are steady, sharp. For once, he’s not filming.
“You need me right now,” he says. “And not just because I know how to keep the narrative on your side. You need me because you don’t know what’s coming next. I do.”
The wind rattles the metal siding behind us. Inside, the string quartet switches to an upbeat pop song no one can name.
“Fame isn’t a straight line,” Blake continues. “You think it is because you only look at the ones at the top. But it’s peaks and valleys. And right now, you’re in the valley. That’s where I’m useful. I can make a valley look like a cliff face so everyone keeps looking up at you.”
His calm should irritate me. Instead, it slides into the crack in my chest like relief.
“I don’t trust people who want to ‘help,’” I say finally.
He smirks. “I’m not helping. I’m building. You just happen to be the face of the project.”
The implication—that I’m both centerpiece and pawn—should make me furious. Instead, it feels like oxygen.
“You can’t let them see you unravel,” he says, softer. “If Harper sees you losing control, she’ll start asking questions. Questions that don’t have answers you can post on Instagram.”
I let the silence stretch. A power play. He waits me out—his own.
Finally, I say, “Fine. But Harper tells me everything. Tonight.”
“And if she won’t?”
My smile curves slow. “Then she’s out. And I’ll find a replacement who doesn’t mind playing supporting actress.”
He studies me like he’s deciding whether to call that bluff. Then he nods. “I’ll set it up.”
We walk back inside. The air smells like champagne and sugared fruit, and everyone’s laughing too loudly. Harper’s at the bar, stirring ice in a glass she hasn’t sipped. She looks up when she sees us and tries to smile. It wobbles.
I can’t trust her. I don’t like what that means for her future.
Blake peels off toward the stage where someone’s announcing auction winners. I slide in beside her.
“Fun night,” I say.
She nods. “Yeah.”
“Except for the part where our favorite stalker vanished into thin air.”
She swallows. “Weird, right?”
“Not weird,” I say. “Calculated.” I tilt my head. “Want to tell me about the text?”
Her eyes widen a fraction. “What text?”
“Oh, Harper.” I let my voice drip. “Don’t insult me.”
She glances around. “Not here.”
“Then where?”
She hesitates, then whispers, “Later. After everyone’s gone.”
I lean in, close enough that my breath brushes her ear. “Fine.”
When I pull back, she’s flushed. Uncomfortable. Exactly where I want her.
Across the room, Blake is watching. Not with suspicion—pleased. Like he’s watching a scene he wrote land exactly on cue.
The thing is, maybe he did.
And maybe I’m okay with that.
Because if The Watcher is gone, I need a new co-star in my survival story.
And Blake?
He knows all my angles.
Even the ones that cut.