Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
ANDI
Ihave signed contracts before.
Property acquisitions. Trust transfers. Vendor agreements. Documents that moved money and reshaped buildings.
None of them made my hands shake like this one.
The talk show agreement sits open on my laptop, the final page glowing on the screen.
I’ve read every clause three times. I insisted on final approval over edits involving my answers.
The producer resisted at first, explaining that editorial control is standard practice, that rearranging for flow is routine, and that I should trust their integrity.
Trust.
I added the clause anyway.
If they rearrange my words, soften the timeline, imply instability, or cut context from my answers, I can pull the segment. That safeguard almost cost me the appearance. Which tells me how easily a story can be reshaped once it leaves your mouth.
The promotional teaser they sent this morning reads: Heiress Speaks Out.
Not survivor.
Not advocate.
Not witness.
Heiress.
The framing is already tilted toward spectacle.
I close the laptop and press my palms flat against the table, trying to steady the restless current running through me.
The youth center received another notice this afternoon requesting clarification about my disclosure history as director.
It was phrased politely. Routine review.
Governance alignment. But the timing is surgical.
Jackson isn’t reacting—he’s arranging. Every detail has been considered, every variable accounted for. The groundwork is done; now he’s ready to pull the trigger.
Luke has been staying here every night since the intrusion.
He doesn’t say it’s about protection, but he checks the locks without thinking and positions himself between me and the door whenever someone knocks.
I hear his boots cross the tile and glance up as he steps into the kitchen. He reads my face before I speak.
“They confirmed taping,” I say. “Four days.”
He nods once and pulls out the chair across from me. There’s no flare of concern in his expression. No hesitation. Just calculation.
“They’ll start running promos tomorrow,” I continue. “Audience questions. Live reactions. Editing.”
“You accounted for editing.”
“Yes.”
“And you can pull it if they manipulate it.”
“I can.”
He studies me for a moment longer. “Then what’s actually bothering you?”
I hesitate, then admit it. “If this explodes the way I think it will, the youth center won’t just be reviewed. It’ll be frozen. Shane’s sponsors won’t wait for the truth. Your name will get dragged into it. So will your parents’ development project.”
He leans forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees. “He’s already pulling those levers.”
“I know.”
“So the only real question is whether you let him frame you first.” There’s no accusation in his tone. Just clarity.
Silence settles between us for a moment, but it isn’t strained. It feels like the quiet before a decision hardens.
He shifts in his chair, then says, almost casually, “Is the offer to move in still good?”
The question catches me off guard. “What?”
“If I give up the apartment,” he says more directly. “If I’m here. Completely.”
I search his face for humor. There isn’t any. “I thought you were already here,” I reply softly.
He gives a faint shake of his head. “Not the way you are.”
I straighten in my chair. “Explain.”
He stands and walks to the window, hands sliding into his pockets. His shoulders are broad and solid, but there’s something exposed in the way he’s holding himself.
“I kept it because I didn’t feel like I brought anything comparable into this,” he says. “You have a house, influence, and resources. I have gloves and a lease. If I moved in, I didn’t want it to look like I was folding into your life because I didn’t have one strong enough on my own.”
It takes me a second to process that. “You think I measure you against my bank account?”
“No,” he says quickly. “I think you don’t. That doesn’t mean I don’t.”
I move toward him slowly. “Luke, you are the most constant thing in my life right now. Not because you fight people. Not because you protect me. Because you stay. Even when it’s messy. Even when it costs you.”
He turns to face me fully.
“I don’t need you to match my assets,” I continue. “I need you to match my courage. And you do. Every day.”
The tension in his shoulders eases, not completely, but enough.
“I don’t want an exit plan,” he says finally. “Not anymore.”
“Then don’t keep one,” I reply.
His hands settle at my waist, steady and warm. “I’m done hedging.”
The relief that moves through me isn’t dramatic. It’s grounding.
Later that evening, when he tells me to get dressed up and won’t explain why, I don’t argue. I need something that isn’t pure strategy to compel me. Something that feels like a choice made for joy rather than survival.
LUKE
The restaurant hasn’t changed.
The lighting is still low enough to soften everything. The music still hums just under conversation level. When we first came here, we were pretending to be friends. Tonight, there’s no pretending left.
She looks different. Not lighter. But resolved. There’s a steadiness in her posture that wasn’t there months ago.
The champagne arrives, and she laughs when the cork pops. The sound cuts through the tension that has lived under our skin for weeks.
I let the toast linger longer than usual.
“To you,” I say. “For choosing not to hide.”
Her eyes shine, but she doesn’t look fragile. She looks focused.
I don’t rush the next part. I don’t act on impulse. I let myself feel the weight of what I’m about to do.
Then I stand.
There’s a subtle shift in the room when someone makes a decision that can’t be undone. Conversations lower without people realizing why.
I kneel slowly, not for spectacle, but because it conveys a deliberate, weighed, and calculated move. The decision I’ve made wasn’t achieved lightly or without considering every angle, every possible outcome, or the seriousness of it.
“Andi,” I say, holding her gaze, “I’m not asking you this because everything is easy. I’m asking you because it isn’t. I don’t want to stand beside you halfway. I don’t want to be the man who stays only when it’s comfortable.”
I open the box.
“I want to build something that doesn’t flinch… that doesn’t hesitate.”
Her hand trembles as it rises to her mouth. Tears gather, but she’s smiling through them.
“I don’t know what the next few months look like,” I continue. “I know they won’t be quiet. But I know I don’t want to face them from across a room.”
For a second, she just stares at me, and I can see her processing everything at once—the investigation, the interview, the youth center, the headlines.
Then she exhales, and the word comes out unfiltered.
“Yes.”
The relief that hits me isn’t loud. It’s anchoring.
When I slide the ring onto her finger, it feels less like a grand gesture and more like alignment. Like drawing a line in the sand in full daylight.
The applause around us barely registers.
Outside, the October air is crisp and clean. She looks down at the ring once, then up at me.
“You understand this makes you more visible,” she says quietly.
“I was already standing next to you,” I reply. “Might as well make it permanent.”
She smiles, and for the first time in days, her expression isn’t guarded.
It’s certain.