Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
ANDI
The interview airs at nine o’clock sharp.
By nine-oh-five, my phone begins vibrating. By nine-ten, the national networks have picked up the segment. By nine-fifteen, my name is trending.
Luke and I sit side by side on the couch, watching the replay of something that already feels like it belongs to someone else. On screen, I look steady. Controlled. Certain. I don’t see the nights I didn’t sleep or the way my hands trembled backstage. I just see a woman telling the truth.
When the program ends, Luke turns the television off and pulls me into his lap. He presses his forehead to mine and says quietly, “You were strong. No one watching that thinks you’re unstable.”
I want to believe him. I do. But strength doesn’t protect you from backlash. It just determines how hard you fall.
The house phone rings. Then my cell. Then the doorbell.
Luke moves toward the front window and parts the blinds slightly. “News vans,” he mutters. “Four of them so far.”
“I’m not doing another interview,” I say immediately.
“Good.”
The doorbell rings again, this time accompanied by a firm knock. Not frantic. Not aggressive. Just deliberate.
Luke checks the peephole before opening the door. A courier stands on the porch, holding a large overnight envelope. No camera crews swarm him. No one shouts questions. The man simply hands over the package, gets a signature, and leaves.
That unsettles me. The lack of chaos and the stealth of precision. Luke closes the door and studies the return address before handing it to me.
Department of Community Oversight.
My stomach drops before I even tear it open.
Inside is a formal notice printed on thick paper bearing the state seal. I read it once and then again more slowly, forcing myself not to skim.
The Morgan Youth Outreach Center is subject to immediate administrative review following concerns raised regarding financial governance and leadership suitability.
Pending review, Andi Morgan is advised to suspend direct contact with enrolled minors until further determination.
Failure to comply may result in the revocation of operating authorization.
I lower the paper carefully. “They’re not shutting it down,” I say.
“Not yet,” Luke answers as a way of warning.
The language is neutral. Professional. Almost polite. There is no accusation written outright. Just an implication.
They’re questioning my leadership suitability, evaluated against my psychiatric history. The public allegations against me will weigh heavily on their decision. They have found an ironclad way to reframe me as a risk without actually getting their hands dirty.
The phone rings again. This time it’s Bill.
“You got it?” he asks without greeting.
“Yes.” My voice is steady, though I’m still in disbelief.
“They filed it before the show finished airing nationally,” he says. “The complaint references your televised statements as the cause for concern regarding emotional stability.”
I close my eyes briefly. “So this was prepared in advance.”
“They were waiting for confirmation that you’d go public.”
Luke is pacing now, hands fisted at his sides. “They can’t keep her from her own building.”
“They can temporarily,” Bill replies. “If she fights it publicly, it looks like she’s putting pride over child safety.”
I hate that he’s right.
The narrative matters. If I refuse to comply, the story becomes about my defiance, not the children.
“I’ll step back,” I say finally.
Luke stops pacing. For a moment, he runs a hand through his hair, jaw tight. Then, in a quiet, certain voice, he comes over and sits beside me. “Whatever happens, I’m with you.”
“I am. The kids come first. Always.”
He looks like he wants to argue, but he understands the calculus.
An hour later, I drive to the youth center, anyway. Not to go inside. Just to see it. I didn’t pour my heart and soul into this place for accolades or awards. All I ever wanted was to help the kids… to save the ones I couldn’t save before.
The building stands exactly as it always has—bright murals, clean windows, the sign painted by the middle school art class still slightly crooked because they insisted it added “character.” Nothing about it looks under investigation.
Mrs. Alvarez steps outside when she sees my car.
“They called this morning,” she says quietly. “Some of the parents are already asking questions.”
“I won’t be coming in for a while,” I tell her. Saying the words aloud makes them real.
She nods, but her eyes soften. “We’ll keep things steady.”
Through the glass doors, I see a small group of kids in the art room. One of the girls spots me and waves enthusiastically.
I raise my hand automatically, then let it fall.
Suspend direct contact.
Luke comes to stand beside me. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He just stands there, solid and warm at my side.
“They’re trying to isolate you,” he says finally.
“Yes,” I reply. “They want it to look responsible.”
When we return home, the afternoon news cycle has updated its language. “State officials confirm review of Morgan Youth Outreach following concerns raised about its founder’s recent televised statements.”
No mention of retaliation. No mention of political pressure. Just a concern regarding my role, specifically. As if my trauma is contagious. The bank calls next, requesting documentation related to trust disbursements to the center. It is framed as a standard procedure during regulatory reviews.
Everything is standard. Everything is procedural.
Everything is suffocating.
Luke turns off the television again and looks at me as though he can physically shield me from a regulatory agency.
“I won’t leave,” he says.
“I know,” I answer.
And I do know. That’s not the fear. The fear is quieter than that. It isn’t that he’ll leave. It’s that this machine will grind slowly enough to wear us both down.
They didn’t send threats. They didn’t shout. They didn’t confront us head-on in a physical altercation to settle the score.
They sent paperwork. And paperwork doesn’t look like war. It looks like policy, rules, violations, and regulations. Which is far more dangerous.
The promos over the past week have really taken a toll on me.
It freaks me out when I’m instantly recognized and asked to give them the scoop because they can’t wait for the show to air.
I have to respectfully decline because of legal restrictions on appearing on the show, but I can honestly say I’m happy to be bound by the law this time.
Most people accept that answer and move on, but a few have promised not to tell a soul. As if that were even plausible.
I've received several hang-up calls on my home phone and a few unknown callers on my cell that refused to say anything.
Luke has called them—or I should say, him—every name in the book to try to goad him into responding.
No luck in that, but the calls keep coming.
I know he wants me to be afraid, but I refuse to give him that satisfaction.
I can handle whatever he does to me, but when he messes with those I love, that's a different story. But I'm holding firm.
We made the rounds among our friends and family to share the good news that Luke proposed to me in person. I was surprised to learn he had asked Pop for permission while he was at the gym. When Pop said yes, Luke immediately went and bought my ring.
I still can’t believe this is happening. I’m about to start my own family, even if it’s a family of two for now. Luke’s parents were thrilled. His sister, Alicia, wants to throw my wedding shower, and my girlfriends can’t wait to throw my bachelorette party.
Brandon was a little more subdued at the news, but he said if this is what I want and what will make me happy, he is all for it.
Luke had an odd look on his face, and I must admit I felt a little uncomfortable.
I love Brandon like a brother, and I get the feeling he's trying to protect me from facing the problems Luke and I had before. I certainly can’t blame him for that.
I don’t ever want to go through that again.
Now that I think about it, Luke has been acting strange this week.
As in the kind of strange that's secretive. He’s been on the computer with his serious expression—brows furrowed, chewing on the end of his pen, and huffing and puffing like he’s frustrated.
I know he’ll tell me what he’s up to when he’s ready, but I still have a hard time shaking my old abandonment issues.
To take my mind off things, I’ve been prepping for the song I’m singing this weekend.
With everything going on, it feels frivolous to still compete in the club’s singing contest. There’s really no prize to win other than bragging rights, and I don’t believe in bragging.
But this song feels different to me. Every lyric echoes a piece of the fight I’ve been living—standing my ground, refusing to back down, and turning every wound into ammunition.
I’m secretly hoping Jackson is there again because this song is for him.
Even if he isn’t, I have a feeling there will be plenty of people there to record my performance, especially after my interview airs on Friday.
I’m looking forward to this one.
After all this bad publicity, the CEO of MaxMorgan Music called me, and we talked for over an hour about everything that's happened. He hinted at my stepping down as Executive Chair until he heard about my conversation with Travis Malone, and he quickly reconsidered.
“Hey, baby, what are you doing?” I ask Luke as I walk into the den. He shuffles some papers, quickly puts them away, and stands to meet me. He draws me into his arms and kisses me senseless.
“Waiting for you, of course,” he replies slyly with his sexy grin. “How about I take you out to eat tonight? There's a new Mexican restaurant close to the gym that's splendid."
“Hmmm, sounds good. What have you been working on in here?” The curiosity got the best of me.