27. Azaria
AZARIA
The next morning, Theo brings me coffee in the exact mug I prefer, with the amount of cream I use, and sets it down beside my laptop with a quick good morning.
He just places the coffee within reach and disappears back downstairs to whatever perfectly organized morning routine keeps his life running like clockwork.
This would be easier if he were sulking.
I stare at the steam rising from the mug, remembering the weight of his arms around me last night, how steady his heartbeat felt against my cheek.
How he made tea without being asked and assured me he was still committed to the investigation, like my emotional chaos hadn't changed anything fundamental between us.
The coffee tastes exactly right. Of course it does.
I push the mug away and open my laptop, determined to focus on something that doesn't involve analyzing Theo's motivations or my complete inability to accept kindness without sabotaging it.
The Paris timeline stares back at me from the screen, a web of connections and contradictions that should demand my full attention. Instead, I keep thinking about how he held me without asking for explanations.
Just let yourself be in his hands.
The thought surfaces before I can stop it, unwelcome and dangerous. I could have this properly—the steadiness, the partnership, the way he sees through my defenses without trying to tear them down. All I'd have to do is stop believing that everything I touch turns to ash.
I slam the laptop shut.
Enough.
I dig through my contacts until I find Lane Silva's number.
Lane has been covering fashion and celebrity culture for fifteen years, sharp enough to spot lies from three blocks away and discreet enough that sources trust her with information that could end careers.
She's sat on stories that would have made her reputation because the people involved asked her to wait.
If anyone can help me navigate this without destroying what little credibility I have left, it's her.
The phone rings twice before she picks up.
"Azaria Emerson. I was wondering when you'd call."
"Were you now?"
"Honey, you've been front-page news for weeks, and this is the first time you've reached out to anyone in media who isn't actively trying to destroy you. Either you've been getting terrible advice, or you're finally ready to control your own narrative."
Lane genuinely likes the people she writes about, but she never forgets that information is currency.
"Off the record?"
"Always, until you tell me otherwise."
"I need to point someone in the right direction without giving them everything. Can you meet today?"
"How soon?"
"This afternoon. Theo has practice, so I can slip out without turning it into a media circus."
"The hockey player who's been harboring you? How's that working out?"
"It's complicated."
Lane laughs, the sound rich with amusement. "Sweetheart, complicated is my specialty. Where do you want to meet?"
"Somewhere quiet. I'll be dressed down."
"There's a coffee place two blocks from Central Park. Grind Coffee. Tiny, terrible lighting, perfect for people who don't want to be photographed. Three o'clock?"
"Perfect."
I arrive at Grind Coffee wearing the baggiest jeans I own, an oversized hoodie, and a baseball cap pulled low enough to cast shadows across my face. It's the closest thing to a disguise I can manage without looking like I'm actively hiding from law enforcement.
The café is exactly as Lane described—small, dimly lit, filled with the kind of mismatched furniture that suggests the owners prioritize function over Instagram aesthetics. Perfect for conversations that need to stay private.
Lane waves me over to a corner booth, already nursing what looks like her second espresso. She's dressed in her usual uniform of black blazer and jeans, her silver hair pulled back in a neat bun that somehow manages to look both professional and effortless.
I slide into the seat across from her, keeping my voice low.
"Thanks for meeting me."
"Thank you for finally calling. I've been watching this Paris situation unfold, and the official story has more holes than Swiss cheese. So. What really happened?"
I wrap my hands around my coffee mug, using the warmth to steady myself. "I was set up by someone with enough resources and connections to orchestrate the entire thing."
"Any idea who?"
"Massimo Lombardi."
Lane's eyebrows rise slightly. "The art collector? Old Milan money?"
"The same. We have history—legal history. I filed assault charges against him two years ago after an incident at a private party. The case has been in litigation ever since, costing him a fortune in legal fees and social standing."
"And you think he orchestrated Paris as revenge?"
I nod. "The timing, the guest list, the way certain people were positioned throughout the night—it wasn't random. Someone wanted me there when the police arrived, wanted me photographed being led out in handcuffs."
Lane pulls out her phone and opens the notes app. "This is still off the record, but I'm going to need more than theories if you want me to dig into this properly."
"I know. I'm not asking you to publish anything yet.
I just need someone with your connections to start asking the right questions.
Follow the money trail between Massimo and the people who were at that party.
Look into who had access to the venue before the event, who might have planted whatever the police were looking for. "
"And in return?"
"When we have enough evidence to go public, you get the exclusive. The full story, with documentation."
Lane studies me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. "You're taking a hell of a risk, trusting me with this."
"I'm taking a risk trusting anyone. But you've never burned a source, and I need someone who understands how these circles work."
"What about your hockey player? Is he helping with this?"
"He is. He's been..." I pause, searching for words that don't reveal too much. "He's been more supportive than I expected."
"Good. You're going to need all the allies you can get if you're going up against someone like Lombardi." Lane finishes her espresso and signals for the check. "I'll start making calls this afternoon. Quietly. How do I reach you if I find something?"
"Same number. And Lane? Be careful. If I'm right about this, Massimo has already proven he's willing to destroy people who get in his way."
"Honey, I've been covering powerful men and their tantrums for fifteen years.
I know how to protect myself." She stands, shouldering her bag.
"Give me a week. Maybe two. And Azaria? Whatever's happening with the hockey player, don't let fear make your decisions for you. Some risks are worth taking."
She leaves before I can respond, disappearing into the afternoon crowd.
I sit in the booth for another ten minutes, staring at my half-empty coffee and thinking about risks worth taking.
I walk back to the townhouse with my baseball cap pulled low and my hands buried deep in my hoodie pockets.
My phone rings the second I close the front door behind me.
‘Dad’ flashes on the screen.
"Dad?"
"Zari. We need to talk."
I drop my bag by the door and move toward the kitchen. "About?"
"Massimo Lombardi's name came up in a meeting today. Connected to the European merger I've been negotiating for months."
I stop walking. "What kind of connection?"
"The coordinated kind. Zari, he hasn't just been trying to destroy your career. He's been going after the entire Emerson operation, using your scandal as cover while he worked at the financial infrastructure underneath."
The kitchen suddenly feels too small. "How long have you known?"
"I suspected early that the setup had a financial motive beyond your reputation alone. I've been running my own quiet investigation from the business side. I'm sorry. I prioritized damage control over you first. I should have led with my daughter instead of the strategy."
Something loosens in my chest. "Dad?—"
"Tell me what you've found."
I pull out my phone and scroll through the photos I took of our timeline.
"We've mapped most of it. The Paris event was orchestrated down to the guest list. Lane Silva is looking into the media suppression—someone paid to keep certain footage from circulating.
Theo's investigator found financial connections between Massimo and three of the people I interacted with that night. "
"Theo's been driving this?"
"Most of it, yeah."
His voice softens. "Zari, how deep does this go on your end?"
"Deep enough that we can prove it. We just need?—"
The front door opens, followed by the familiar sound of Theo's gym bag hitting the floor. He appears in the kitchen doorway, still in his post-practice clothes, hair damp with sweat.
I cover the phone. "It's my father. About Massimo."
Theo's expression sharpens immediately.
"Dad, Theo just got back. Can I call you in an hour?"
"Put me on speaker."
I hesitate, then tap the screen. "You're on."
"Theo." Kofi's voice fills the kitchen. "We need to talk."
Theo moves to the sink, washing his hands while he listens. "I'm listening."
"Thank you, Theo. Whatever resources you need to finish this properly, you have them."
I end the call and look at Theo, who's drying his hands.
"Your father's full of surprises."
"He's full of guilt. There's a difference."
Theo pushes up against the counter. "You look like you've been plotting something."
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, suddenly aware of how the oversized hoodie makes me look like I'm drowning in fabric. "I might have been."
"Define 'might.'"
"I met with a journalist today. Lane Silva. While you were at practice."
His expression doesn't change, but I catch the slight tightening around his eyes. "You went out alone?"
"I was careful. Baseball cap, terrible lighting, the whole incognito routine." I pull the cap from my hoodie pocket and wave it at him. "See? Still have all my limbs."
"Who's Lane Silva?"
I perch on the kitchen island, swinging my legs.
"Fashion and celebrity culture reporter.
Been in the game for fifteen years, covers everyone from runway models to tech billionaires' wives.
She's the one who broke the story about that pharmaceutical heiress embezzling from her own charity, but she's also killed stories that would have destroyed people when they asked her to wait. "
Theo opens the refrigerator and pulls out a water bottle, unscrewing the cap. "And you trust her because?"
"Because she's never burned a source. Ever.
Her reputation depends on discretion as much as accuracy.
" I watch him take a long drink, the way his throat moves when he swallows.
"She sat on a story about a senator's daughter's drug problem for six months because the family was trying to get her into rehab.
Only published it when the daughter went public herself. "
"What did you tell her?"
"Everything. Massimo, the setup, the timeline we've built. I asked her to start digging into the financial connections between him and the Paris guest list."
Theo sets the water bottle on the counter and looks at me directly. "Without discussing it with me first."
"Without discussing it with you first," I confirm, meeting his gaze. "I should have told you beforehand. I know that. But I was sitting here this morning, drinking the perfect cup of coffee you made me, and I felt like I was going to crawl out of my skin if I didn't do something."
"The coffee was perfect?"
"Don't deflect. I'm trying to apologize."
His mouth quirks up at the corner. "Continue."
"I trust Lane. I've known her for years, and she's covered me before without making me look like a complete disaster.
She understands how these circles work, who talks to whom, where the real power sits.
" I slide off the island and move closer to him.
"I gave her a week, maybe two, to start pulling threads.
If she finds anything solid, she gets the exclusive when we're ready to go public. "
He nods slowly. "It's not a bad move."
"It's not?"
"We need all the help we can get. Your father's backing, my investigator, and now someone with media connections who actually knows how to handle sensitive information." He pushes off from the counter. "I'm not thrilled that you went alone, but I understand why you did it."
Relief floods through me, unexpected and warming. "You're not angry?"
"Nope.” He moves toward me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "Next time, just tell me. We're supposed to be partners in this."
"Partners?"
"Partners," he confirms, and something in his voice makes the word sound like a promise.