Chapter 37
TILDA
The first time I see it, I think it’s a replay.
Just another loop of the disaster.
Another angle of the same moment where everything went sideways and stayed there.
I’m standing in the temporary recovery wing of the compound, Jesse perched on my hip with one hand tangled in my shirt like I might disappear if he lets go, when one of the wall-sized holoscreens flickers and stabilizes.
Bron fills the frame.
Not the Bron I met two years ago.
Not the Bron who laughed too loud and lived too fast and treated consequences like optional suggestions.
This Bron.
Covered in dust.
Breathing hard.
Standing between a monster and a field full of people trying to run for their lives.
The broadcast cuts between angles.
Him pulling the creature’s attention.
Him dragging that loader rig into its path.
Him getting thrown and getting back up like gravity is just a mild inconvenience.
The commentators’ voices layer over the footage, no longer playful, no longer detached.
Reverent.
“This—this is not competition behavior,” Rick says, his tone stripped of its usual polish. “This is protective instinct. He is actively diverting the creature away from evacuation zones.”
“And folks at home,” Lenny cuts in, unusually subdued, “that’s not for points. That’s not for ratings. That’s just… that’s just someone deciding other people matter more.”
I swallow.
Jesse pats my cheek.
“Dada loud,” he says thoughtfully.
My throat tightens.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “He is.”
Around me, the room is full of people.
Contestants wrapped in emergency blankets. Staff clutching comm units. Security personnel moving in steady, controlled lines now that the immediate threat has passed.
And every single one of them is watching the same screen.
Watching him.
“You know him?” a woman beside me asks, her voice hushed like we’re in a cathedral instead of a triage center.
I hesitate for half a second.
Then—
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I do.”
She studies me.
Then looks back at the screen.
“He saved my partner,” she says.
The words land softly, but they carry weight.
I nod.
“He’d like that,” I murmur.
Another screen flickers to life across the room.
Then another.
The footage spreads.
Different angles.
Different commentary feeds.
Different networks picking up the same story.
Because of course they are.
This isn’t just an event anymore.
This is a moment.
And the galaxy loves a moment.
Fenn shifts beside me, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the screens.
“Well,” he mutters. “That’s going to be a problem.”
I glance at him.
“What kind of problem?”
“The kind where your idiot becomes famous again,” he says dryly.
I huff a quiet laugh.
“He already was.”
“Not like this.”
No.
Not like this.
Because this isn’t performance.
This isn’t a song or a stage or a carefully curated persona.
This is raw.
Unfiltered.
Real.
And people can tell the difference.
The footage cuts again.
Now it’s a split-screen.
On one side—Bron in the arena, standing in the dust, refusing to back down.
On the other—
Me.
Jesse in my arms.
Watching.
Someone must have captured it from the compound cameras.
I stiffen.
“Oh, that’s not—” I start.
Fenn snorts.
“Too late.”
The commentary picks it up instantly.
“And there—look at that,” Lenny says, his voice rising again. “That’s the woman he was running for. That’s his family.”
My stomach flips.
“That’s not—” I mutter again, but it sounds weak even to me.
Because it is.
Because it’s true.
Rick’s voice follows, steadier.
“Sources confirm that contestant Tilda Robertson has been competing as a single mother. That child—”
Jesse waves at the screen.
“Hi.”
I bury my face in his hair for a second.
“This is a nightmare,” I whisper.
“Or,” Fenn says, “it’s about to be very profitable.”
I look at him.
“You’re not helping.”
“I’m not trying to help,” he says. “I’m trying to prepare you.”
“For what?”
He gestures at the screens.
“For that.”
The broadcast shifts again.
Now it’s not just the arena.
It’s commentary panels.
News anchors.
Experts.
All talking at once.
“—unprecedented display of heroism—”
“—public response already trending across the holonet—”
“—Brautigaum Plastics branding visible throughout the event—”
I blink.
Wait.
“What?”
Fenn grins.
“There it is.”
The realization hits slowly.
Then all at once.
Brautigaum Plastics.
The sponsorship.
The logos plastered across every surface of that arena.
Every camera angle.
Every replay.
Every moment of that disaster—
Branded.
“Oh,” I breathe.
“Oh,” Fenn echoes.
The screen shifts again.
This time it’s a live press conference.
Andrew Brautigaum stands at a podium, looking like a man who just stumbled into the greatest marketing opportunity of his life and has no intention of wasting it.
He’s practically glowing.
“Tilda,” Fenn says under his breath, “you might want to pay attention.”
I stare at the screen.
Brautigaum adjusts his jacket, smiles into the cameras.
“Citizens of the galaxy,” he begins, his voice smooth and confident, “today we witnessed something extraordinary.”
You mean catastrophic, I think.
“While the final event of the Galactic Extreme Challenge did not conclude as planned,” he continues, “it revealed something far more valuable than competition.”
The footage behind him shifts.
Bron.
Again.
Always Bron.
“Courage,” Brautigaum says. “Integrity. And the kind of authentic human story that reminds us why we do what we do.”
I almost choke.
Fenn elbows me lightly.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “He’s about to monetize your trauma.”
“Shut up.”
Brautigaum spreads his hands.
“At Brautigaum Plastics, we believe in supporting individuals who embody resilience and determination. And no one exemplifies those qualities more than one of our own.”
My stomach drops.
“Oh no,” I whisper.
The camera zooms in slightly.
“Ms. Tilda Robertson,” he says, smiling like we’re best friends.
Fenn makes a low, impressed sound.
“Congratulations,” he mutters.
“I didn’t—” I start.
“—who has demonstrated exceptional strength under pressure,” Brautigaum continues, “both in the arena and in her personal life.”
The footage shifts again.
Me.
Jesse.
Walking into the compound.
Holding it together by sheer force of will.
I feel suddenly exposed.
Like the entire galaxy is looking straight through me.
“—is exactly the kind of individual we are proud to support,” Brautigaum says.
I shake my head slightly.
“This is insane.”
“—which is why,” he continues, pausing just long enough for dramatic effect, “effective immediately, Ms. Robertson will be promoted to a senior administrative position within Brautigaum Plastics, with full benefits, increased compensation, and long-term housing support.”
The room goes quiet.
Around me, people start reacting.
Murmurs.
Whispers.
Someone actually claps.
I just stare at the screen.
“What,” I say faintly.
Fenn laughs.
“Oh, that’s good,” he says. “That’s very good.”
“Is this real?” I ask.
He glances at me.
“Tilda.”
“I’m serious.”
“Yes,” he says. “It’s real.”
Jesse pokes my cheek again.
“Mama rich?”
I choke on a laugh.
“I—” I start.
I don’t even know how to answer that.
Because for the first time in years—
The math in my head changes.
Rent.
Food.
Childcare.
All those numbers that have been pressing in on me, tightening like a vise—
They loosen.
Just a little.
Enough to breathe.
Brautigaum continues talking on the screen, something about corporate responsibility and future initiatives and leveraging momentum, but I barely hear him anymore.
Because I’m looking at Jesse.
At his bright, curious eyes.
At the way he clings to me like I’m the center of his world.
And for the first time since he was born—
I feel like I might actually be able to give him what he deserves.
Stability.
Safety.
A future that isn’t built on constant fear of the next bill, the next problem, the next thing breaking that I can’t afford to fix.
My throat tightens.
“Oh,” I whisper.
Fenn watches me quietly.
“Yeah,” he says.
I look back at the screen.
At Bron.
At the man who stood in front of a monster and didn’t run.
“You did that,” I murmur softly.
Jesse tilts his head.
“Dada strong.”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice unsteady. “He is.”
The galaxy is watching him.
Cheering him.
Telling his story.
But in this moment—
All I can think is this:
We’re going to be okay.