3. Chapter 3
Claire
The conference room is all glass and gray upholstery, and every man across this table is waiting for me to prove I belong here.
A year ago, that might've rattled me. Today? Not a chance.
I feel the nerves, sure — anyone would standing in front of millionaires and executives who could tank a man's career with a single phone call. But nerves don't matter when you're prepared. And I am prepared.
I flip open my notebook to the first tabbed section — color-coded, cross-referenced, borderline obsessive — and slide a printed one-pager in front of each of them before they can blink. Clean margins. No typos. Phases broken down with deliverables, timelines, and contingencies.
Let them wonder what I'm doing here. Let them underestimate me. It only makes the reveal sweeter.
Don Hartwell studies the report with the same look he always gets when Darius's name comes up. Half optimism, half concern. Like he's already counting the ticket sales while bracing for the next disaster.
Evan Carter, Darius's agent, picks his up like it might be Exhibit A in a future lawsuit.
Darius doesn't touch his. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, the picture of a man who knows one wrong move could cost him his career — and still refuses to flinch.
He watches me the same way he did yesterday in his penthouse, like he's already mapped three escape routes and is deciding which one he'll take if this whole thing blows up.
And suddenly it hits me. Every man at this table has something to lose. Don has a franchise to protect. Evan has a client to salvage. Darius has a contract hanging by a thread.
And me? I'm the one they're betting on to keep all three from falling apart.
"Twelve weeks," I say. "Three phases. One outcome."
"Phase one is media access." I move to the whiteboard. "Controlled availability. Two press sessions per week, approved questions only for the first thirty days. We let the reporters feel like they're getting access while we manage the narrative at every entry point."
Evan nods. He's already done this math.
"Phase two is community presence. Youth football clinic, minimum two appearances per month. We've identified a partnership with the Next Play Foundation that puts Darius in front of kids and cameras in the same shot. The optics are strong and the work is real."
I pause just long enough.
"And I mean real. Not showing up for twenty minutes, shaking hands, and leaving before the cameras pack up.
I mean Darius on the field running drills.
Darius crouching down to show a ten-year-old how to grip a football.
Darius talking to parents who drove forty-five minutes because their kid needed to see someone who looked like them make it.
That's the version of him we're selling — because that's the version that actually sticks. "
Across the table, Darius's expression tightens. His eyes cut to me, sharp and incredulous, like he's silently asking if I'm serious. I meet his stare with one of my own — the kind that says you're damn right I am.
I can practically hear the thought running through his head. Community service? Really?
Good. Let him be surprised. This isn't a Mr. Hollywood photo op.
Don makes a note.
"Phase three is verified personal narrative. This is where we stop reacting to the Atlanta story and start replacing it. We give the public something stronger to believe in."
I set down my marker.
"Which brings me to phase four."
The temperature in the room shifts. Not dramatically — just enough. The kind of shift that happens when people sense something is coming that they didn't put on their calendar.
Don looks at Evan. Evan looks at Don.
Something passes between them — not a plan, more like a thought arriving in both of them at the same time. Don gives a slow nod. Evan tips his head like he's turning it over.
"A girlfriend," Don says.
"Documented," Evan adds. "Visible. Someone the cameras confirm."
"But it has to be the right woman. Not a stunt. Not a headline," Don leans forward.
I flip to the next page in my notebook and slide it to the center of the table.
"I put together a shortlist last night."
I read it without picking it up.
Three names. A pop singer with forty million Instagram followers and a recent tabloid breakup.
A swimsuit model who'd been photographed courtside at three different NBA games this season.
A Stallions cheerleader named Brianna who, according to a handwritten note in the margin, was "very enthusiastic about the idea. "
I keep my face completely still.
"The problem," Don says, tapping the page, "is all of these read as exactly what they are.
You put Darius Webb next to a model or a pop star and nobody believes the redemption arc.
They believe the PR team." He shakes his head.
"We don't need another headline. We need people to think he finally grew up. "
"Think about what settling down does for a man's image," Evan says.
"Travis Kelce. Russell Wilson. The moment those guys got serious about someone, the whole conversation changed.
They stopped being just football players.
They became household names. People who had never watched a single game knew who they were. Their reach went global."
Don points at him. "Exactly. A man in a real relationship reads as stable. Trustworthy. Ready to lead." He leans forward. "That's what we need. Not another appearance. Not a photo op. A relationship that makes people believe Darius Webb finally chose something worth keeping."
"You're both from Houston, Claire. Rival high schools. You ran in overlapping circles growing up. Never dated — but you knew each other." He pauses. "People love that story. Childhood almost-sweethearts finding their way back to each other. It's the kind of thing that writes itself."
"Think about it," Don says, twirling his pen between his fingers like he's weighing the fate of nations instead of a PR stunt. He leans back with that smooth, old-school confidence — the kind that makes you wonder if he's offering you a deal or a warning.
He names the number like it's pocket change. "Fifty thousand. For twelve weeks."
My breath catches. Not a gasp, not a squeak — a sharp, involuntary inhale I pray no one else hears.
Fifty thousand dollars. For three months. That's six months of my salary.
Don watches the flicker of shock on my face with a knowing little smile. Like he's seen that exact reaction a hundred times and never once been wrong about it.
And for a split second I can't tell if he's being generous.
Or if I just stepped into a deal where the fine print doesn't show up until it's too late.
And that's when my father's face appears in my head.
Not dramatically — just quietly, the way it does when I'm trying hardest not to think about it.
Pastor Samuel Wells, sitting at the kitchen table in Sugar Land with reading glasses he won't admit he needs, pretending the stack of medical paperwork beside his coffee mug is something he has under control.
He doesn't have it under control.
The surgery is in six weeks. A specialist my parents' insurance doesn't fully cover.
My mother called me three nights ago and read me the number in that voice she only uses when she's already done her crying privately and decided to be practical.
I sat on my bathroom floor for ten minutes after we hung up.
I have been trying to figure out how to close that gap ever since.
They're both looking at me now.
So is Darius. Still silent. Still watching.
I set my pen down.
"Who is going to believe that?" I ask. "I'm not a celebrity. I don't have a following or a platform or a reason for anyone to know my name. Why would anyone buy that Darius Webb is serious about a woman like me?"
"Because of the scandal, not in spite of it," Evan says.
"He just got dragged through the mud publicly.
The last thing anyone expects is for a woman from his past to still be standing next to him.
But that's exactly what makes it powerful.
She knew him before the money and the headlines.
She never bought into the ESPN version of him.
And when he came back to Houston with nothing left to prove and nowhere left to hide — he looked up the one person who ever saw him clearly. "
He pauses.
"That's not a PR story. That's a love story."
I look at Darius for the first time since Don suggested my name.
He's already looking at me.
I can't read his expression. I'm not sure I want to.
"No one's going to assume it's fake," Evan continues. "A celebrity girlfriend — people clock that in five minutes. But you? Nobody's going to question it. They're going to think he's been hiding you on purpose."
He glances at Don.
"And we control the whole thing."
Nobody knows who I am.
Don said it like it was a compliment.
It lands like getting shoved into a locker in front of the whole hallway.
"What's the fee structure? Penalty clauses if either party breaches?" I ask.
"Whatever you need," Don says.
"I'll draft the NDA myself." I open my notebook to a clean page. "Mutual nondisclosure. Penalty clauses on both sides. Timeline locked at twelve weeks with defined exit terms."
I look up. "I'll have it to you by end of day."
Evan looks mildly impressed. From Evan, that's considerable.
Don nods. "Draw it up."
Darius still hasn't said a word.
When he finally does, the room goes quiet.
"Why?"
His voice lands in the middle of the room like he set it down carefully.
"Why are you willing to do this?"
Evan looks up. Don stops writing.
"My reasons are my own. What matters is that I'm the right person for this and I'll get it done. That's what you're paying me for."
I hold his gaze until he decides that's all he's getting.
He doesn't need to know anything about my father. Or my finances.
Don pushes two copies of the NDA across the table. One to Darius, one to me.
Darius picks up his copy, glances at the first line, and signs it. Fast. Certain. Like he made the decision somewhere before we sat down and the paperwork is just confirmation.
I pick up my pen and read every clause.
I'm not going to apologize for that.
Paragraph three covers media conduct. Paragraph seven covers breach terms. Paragraph eleven is the exit clause, the one I wrote three times before I got the language right. I initial it separately so there's no question I saw it.
I initial the final page and slide the contract back across the table.
Don smiles.
"We start Monday."
Three months.
Twelve weeks.
Fifty thousand dollars.
Enough to make the math work.
I close my notebook and stand.
For the first time since I walked into this meeting, I let myself acknowledge what I've actually agreed to.
I've built campaigns, managed crises, and cleaned up disasters, but I've never had to pretend I was in love before.
Then I make the mistake of looking at Darius.
Suddenly, I have the unsettling feeling that signing the contract was the easy part.