Chapter 18
Dane
The notification pops up on my laptop screen while I'm deep in edits for my next novel—a story that's becoming increasingly autobiographical despite my attempts at fiction.
The alien romance I'm writing features a human woman claimed by three different alien species who must learn to share her for the sake of the universe.
My Google alert for Claire's name, which I set up after Chad's visit three days ago, has found something. The sick feeling in my stomach intensifies as I click the link.
"The Hidden Victims: My Ex-Girlfriend's Descent into a Predatory Situation" reads the Medium article headline. The author is listed as "Anonymous," but the details make it clear—this is Chad, telling a story he knows absolutely nothing about.
I read with growing fury, catching every manipulative technique.
He describes her as "vulnerable after our relationship ended," suggesting she was "taken advantage of by three older men with significant financial resources.
" He hints at Stockholm syndrome, coercion, and possible trafficking.
The comments are already piling up—strangers offering sympathy to him, calling for investigations, demanding justice.
"That fucking bastard," I mutter, screenshotting everything.
The sound of the front door slamming echoes through the house—Jonathan, from the force of it. I hear his footsteps taking the stairs two at a time, then Stuart's more measured tread following. They appear in my study doorway at the same time.
"You've seen it," Jonathan states, not a question. His face is flushed with rage, still in his workout clothes, sweat drying on his skin. A vein pulses visibly at his temple.
"Just now." I turn my laptop toward them. "It's character assassination disguised as being concerned. Manipulative fucker."
Stuart leans over, reading rapidly, his expression growing colder with each line. "This is calculated defamation. He's avoided using names but included enough detail to identify us."
"I want to hurt him," Jonathan says flatly, his hands clenching into fists. "I want to drive to his home right now and show him what actual predators look like."
"That's exactly what he wants," Stuart counters, though I can see the muscle jumping in his jaw. "One violent reaction from us validates his entire story."
"So what then, we do nothing?" Jonathan's voice rises. "Let him spread these lies while Claire—" He stops. "Where is Claire, by the way?"
"Shit, she just texted me she's in the library," I say, standing quickly. "Said she can't breathe."
We rush toward the library, our footsteps urgent on the hardwood. The room appears empty at first.
"Claire?" Stuart calls out in alarm.
That's when we hear her—a soft, broken sob from the couch. We find her curled into the smallest ball possible, like she's trying to disappear entirely. Her laptop is open beside her, the article displayed, comments section showing.
"Oh, baby," Jonathan breathes, immediately kneeling beside her.
Stuart's hands hover uncertainly—the surgeon who always knows exactly what to do suddenly lost when faced with emotional trauma. I settle on her other side, trying desperately to comfort her.
"They think I'm a victim," she whispers. "That I've been brainwashed. Someone posted my clinic information."
"We'll sue him into oblivion," Stuart says, his voice deadly quiet. "My lawyer—"
"No," Claire interrupts. "That gives him more ammunition. Makes us look guilty."
"Then what do you want us to do?" Jonathan asks, his hand rubbing soothing circles on her back. "We can't just let him win."
"He's already winning," she says, showing us her phone. "Look at the share count. The comments. People love a scandal."
Stuart stands abruptly, pacing to the window. "I knew this would happen. Society doesn't accept what we have. They never will."
"So we give up?" I challenge. "Let their narrow minds dictate our happiness?"
"I'm being practical—"
"You're being a coward," Jonathan snaps, surprising everyone. "You're ready to abandon ship at the first sign of rough waters."
"I'm trying to protect Claire—"
"By suggesting we surrender? By validating Chad's opinion that this is wrong?"
"Stop," Claire says quietly, but with enough force that we all turn to her. She's sitting up now, my cardigan wrapped around her. "Arguing with each other is exactly what he wants. We're stronger together."
"Are we?" Stuart asks, genuine uncertainty in his voice. "Or are we just making Claire a target?"
"I was already a target," Claire says, steel entering her voice. "The moment I chose all of you over society's expectations."
"But the baby—" Stuart starts.
"Will be raised by people who fought for their right to exist as a family," Claire finishes. "Or would you rather teach them to hide who they are?"
The question hangs in the air, challenging all of us.
"We need to control the narrative," I say, my mind spinning. "Not respond to his post directly, but flood the space with our own truth."
"How?" Jonathan asks.
"I have a platform. Almost a million followers on Facebook."
"You'll make yourself a target," Stuart warns.
"We're already targets. At least this way, we're fighting back. Let’s use my reach as an author to vouch and protect our relationship, all of us."
Claire reaches for each of us, pulling us closer until we're all connected—a circle of protection around her and the life growing inside her. "Together," she says. "Whatever we do, we do together."
"I have a plan," I say, my mind already spinning strategies.
"What kind of plan?" Stuart asks, skeptical but listening.
"First, we need to calm down. All of us." I look at Claire, whose breathing is still shaky. "Let me tell you all a story. About our future. It'll help us remember what we're fighting for."
Jonathan settles on Claire's other side while Stuart remains standing but moves closer, his hand finding her shoulder.
"Close your eyes," I instruct softly, my voice dropping into the register I use for audiobooks. "All of you. Let me paint you a picture."
Claire complies immediately, leaning back against the window seat. Jonathan follows, his hand finding Claire's. Even Stuart, after a moment's hesitation, closes his eyes, though his hand remains protectively on Claire's shoulder.
"Five years from now," I begin, "we're in a different house.
Not because there's anything wrong with this one, but because we needed more space for the chaos we've created.
It's still in New York, close enough to the city for Stuart's surgeries and your practice, Claire, but with land. Lots of land."
"How much land?" Stuart asks, unable to help himself. Even in imagination, he needs specifics.
"Ten acres," I decide.
"Only ten?" Jonathan teases, his thumb stroking Claire's hand. "I was hoping for twenty."
"Our child is four years old," I continue, ignoring Jonathan. "They have Stuart's intensity—"
"Good, they'll need focus," Stuart interjects, but his voice is softer now, caught in the story.
"They inherited Jonathan's boundless energy on the playground, never walking when they can run—"
"Obviously," Jonathan says with pride. "No kid of mine is going to be sedentary."
"And my love of stories that makes bedtime take two hours because 'just one more chapter' becomes a nightly negotiation."
"That's your fault entirely," Claire murmurs, a smile in her voice. "You'll spoil them with stories."
"But mostly," I continue, "they have your strength, Claire. Your ability to stand firm when the world says you should bend."
"What do they look like?" Claire asks softly.
"Your eyes," Stuart says unexpectedly, joining the story. "Green like sea glass. But maybe my height—tall for their age."
"My dimples," Jonathan adds. "The ones that make it impossible to stay mad at them when they've done something wrong."
"And my inability to sleep past sunrise," I contribute. "Sorry in advance for that..."
Claire laughs softly, the sound replacing her earlier tears.
I continue. "No one questions our relationship anymore because by then, it's just who we are.”
"There will be challenges," I continue, grounding us in reality. "Questions from other parents, from teachers—"
"I'll organize inclusive family events," Jonathan adds. "Normalize our normal."
"And I'll write children's books featuring our family structure," I say. "Make sure our child sees themselves in stories."
"What about me?" Claire asks. "What's my role in handling the challenges?"
"You're the one who holds us together when we want to fight the world," Stuart says quietly. "Who reminds us that our child needs us to be unified."
"You're the heart," Jonathan adds simply.
"The narrator of our story," I contribute. "The one who makes sense of all of it."
Claire's breathing has completely calmed now, the panic attack fully subsided.
"What is life going to be like once the baby is born," she asks. "Just like a regular day.”
I think for a moment. "Stuart wakes at 5 AM for surgery, but stops in the nursery first, just to make sure the baby is okay."
"Of course," Stuart says.
"Jonathan's up at 6 for his workout, but he brings the baby monitor to the gym, just in case the baby wakes up."
"But, of course, our child will be a perfect sleeper," Jonathan says.
"I'm up when the baby cries at 6:30. We have elaborate conversations in gibberish while I change their diaper."
"And me?" Claire asks.
"You sleep until 7," I respond.
"Because you'll need rest," Stuart adds. "You're building your wellness empire, remember?"
"Plus you're the night shift when they have bad dreams," Jonathan contributes. "They'll always want Mama for the scary stuff."
"We take turns with breakfast," I continue. "Stuart makes precisely measured portions. Jonathan creates protein-packed smoothies that taste suspiciously like dessert. I make pancakes in ridiculous shapes."
"Dinosaur pancakes," Claire says dreamily. "I always wanted to make dinosaur pancakes for my kids."
"Then dinosaur pancakes it is," Stuart says.