Chapter 11
Star
The fluorescent lights of the roadside diner hum with a low, electric buzz, a stark contrast to the crystal chandeliers we left behind. I sit at a booth where the red vinyl is cracked and taped, my laptop open on the sticky Formica table.
The draft headline blinks at me: Art Therapy at Risk: Children’s Healing Shouldn’t Be Political.
We were halfway home when Cillian and I pulled over to work on a tactic against his mother, and the pending involvement of the Governor. Per Mary’s threats.
My fingers hover, but the words won’t come. Not yet.
Bea slides into the booth opposite me, shedding her sweater for a coat she must have grabbed in a hurry. She arrived ten minutes after we did, breathless and shaking, telling us she couldn’t stay in that mausoleum a second longer than we could. Even if it meant Mary was going to destroy her.
Now, she leans over the table.
“You need to start with the kids,” she says, pointing a manicured nail at the screen. “Make it impossible for anyone—especially the Governor—to see this as numbers on a spreadsheet or about social standing. It’s about faces, stories, lives.”
I glance at her, surprised by the steel in her voice. She’s not the fragile victim I saw at dinner, nor the rival Mary tried to invent. In this cheap diner, stripped of the Brown estate’s pretenses, she’s an ally.
“You’re right,” I admit. “If we show what this program means, they can’t deny the grant without looking heartless.”
She nods, already pulling out her phone. “I know a journalist at the Times who owes me a favor. If we get this polished tonight, I can make sure it runs tomorrow. Front page.”
The tension in my chest loosens. For the first time since stepping into Mary’s orbit, I feel like I’m not fighting gravity alone. “Thank you, Bea,” I whisper.
Her smile is small, sharp. “Don’t thank me yet. Let’s make it undeniable.”
We work side by side, shaping paragraphs, weaving in testimonies from nurses and parents I’ve interviewed. Bea edits with ruthless precision, trimming excess, sharpening impact. Mary underestimated her by keeping her in the role of moldable ex; Bea has teeth, and she’s finally ready to bite back.
Cillian returns from the counter, the bell above the door chiming faintly as the wind rattles the glass. He looks out of place here in his tailored coat, yet his expression is lighter than I’ve ever seen it.
He slides two fresh mugs of steaming coffee onto the table, the ceramic clinking against the Formica.
“Thought you could use this,” he says, sliding into the booth next to me. His thigh presses against mine.
“Perfect timing,” I say, wrapping my hands around the heat.
He lingers, his eyes flicking across the table to his ex-wife. The silence stretches, filled only by the hum of the refrigerator and the distant clatter of dishes.
“I owe you an apology, Bea,” he says, his voice low enough not to carry to the truck driver at the counter, but steady.
Bea looks up from her phone, startled. “You don’t have to—“
“I do.” He exhales, the sound heavy with years of unspoken regret. “I used you. I let you be the buffer between me and my mother because it was easier than fighting her myself. I bought my own peace with your silence, and I let her hollow you out to keep the heat off me.”
He shakes his head, looking down at his coffee. “It wasn’t just a lack of love. It was cowardice. I’m sorry I didn’t release you sooner. And I am sorry that I ignored every sign of my mother’s manipulations. I let you suffer in silence because it was my convenience.”
The silence that follows is heavy, but not cruel. It’s the sound of a wound finally being cleaned.
Bea studies him, her expression softening. “You’re right,” she says quietly. “I felt like a ghost in that house. But leaving... the day our divorce was finalized was the first day I felt solid again.”
She reaches across the table, not to touch him, but to tap her finger on the table for emphasis. “I forgive you, Cillian. But mostly because you finally woke up.”
I watch them, my heart tightening—not with jealousy, but with relief. Cillian standing up for his ex-wife bodes well for me. It tells me that he respects the women in his life, and won’t let anyone, not even his mother, control them.
Bea turns back to me, her eyes bright with purpose. She taps the laptop screen. “Now, let’s finish this exposé. If the Governor wants to play politics with sick children, he’s going to have to answer to the public first.”
I nod, adrenaline sparking through my exhaustion. Together, we dive back into the words—three castaways in a roadside diner, bound not by the past, but by the fire we’re about to start.