Chapter 37
Because taking control is always the right thing to do. Right?
Emma found Leah by the cafeteria again, exactly where she’d left her.
The stark lighting threw deep shadows on her face, making her look tired in a way Emma had never seen.
Her head was bent over her phone, fingers moving fast, a focused crease between her brows.
When Emma approached, she only glanced up briefly, as if Emma were just another notification.
“Back in civilian mode then?” she said flatly.
Emma didn’t answer. She’d left the stillsuit in the wardrobe room, not sure what to do with it, just knowing she couldn’t stand seeing it for another second.
But being back in her own jeans and sweater didn’t bring her any comfort. The cotton felt alien against her body, like her skin had somehow shifted since she last wore them. Hardened into a shell—protective, lifeless.
It was probably a good thing. The slightest crack now felt like it would shatter her.
“I’m almost done canceling your interviews for the afternoon,” Leah muttered. “Just one more to go.”
“Why?” Her voice scraped, thin and cold. “I thought we were trying to take control of the narrative.”
Leah’s head lifted at that, her gaze sharpening like she was taking measurements. “Yeah. I don’t think that’s a great idea right now.”
Emma squared her jaw. Darren’s words still pulsed in her head: Is this you or Leah talking?
“Which interview is left?” she pressed out.
“BookTok Weekly. Big following, huge crossover between your fans and Darren’s. I can tell her not to ask about him, but she will anyway.”
“Good.” Emma crossed her arms, trying to steady herself. “Might as well face it so we can move on and focus on the book.”
Leah finally let her phone fall to her side and turned fully toward her. “You went to talk to him, didn’t you? What happened?”
“Creative differences.” She forced her lips into a thin smile.
“Okay.” Leah tilted her head, voice softening. “As your PR manager—and your friend—I strongly advise you not to do any interviews today. Whatever’s going on with you and Darren, clearly, you’re not in a great place right now and—”
“Noted,” Emma cut in. “Where’s the interview?”
Leah blinked, then shook her head slowly. “This is a terrible idea.”
“Well, you work for me, don’t you? Not the other way around.”
The words landed hard in the narrow corridor, cutting the air between them.
Leah stared at her, eyes wide. Emma’s stomach twisted. She had never raised her voice at Leah. Never pushed back like this.
Part of her instantly wanted to rewind, to fix it.
The other part—the one that still echoed Darren’s words in her head—held her back. She had to do this. Reclaim her own voice. Prove him wrong.
Leah rolled her shoulders, armor sliding back into place. “Fine. Your call. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Emma nodded stiffly, too tightly wound to speak. The air in the corridor pressed in, suffocating. She needed to get out of here.
“Text me the time and place,” she managed, already walking away. If she stopped, the guilt would catch up to her. Would chip away at the shell she’d built until it started cracking.
No cracks allowed.
gig
The interview setup Leah had booked was tucked into a corner of the press area. A faint note of sweat hung in the room after a day full of journalists scrambling to ask fresh questions and stars trying to come up with something new to say.
Voices rose and fell from other interview stations, but at this end of the room, it was too quiet—just Emma, the host, and Leah, arms folded, distant.
Even with everything between them, Emma had expected counsel, the usual whispered notes Leah gave ahead of interviews like a boxing coach pointing out the opponent’s strengths and weaknesses. But she stayed posted a few feet away, showing no sign she intended to speak to Emma at all.
Fair enough.
The setup before the camera had a Bonds of Light-branded backdrop and two proper armchairs, far better than the flap chairs she’d seen elsewhere. Ring lights were rigged, and there was even a fruit bowl on a small table.
Another stab of guilt cut through her. This had been meant for the whole press junket. Leah had put effort into this—for her. And then had to cancel the whole thing, because Emma had set it all on fire.
She buried the thought, shut it away with all the other jagged edges inside her.
No cracks allowed.
Emma sat on the edge of the armchair, hands clasped tight around her knee.
The host was already in her seat. “Emma Whitehart!” she greeted with a brilliant flash of white teeth. “You’ve had a whirlwind few days here at Comic-Con. Panels, readings, signings—how are you holding up?”
“It’s been . . . amazing.” She managed a thin smile. “And a lot. Comic-Con really is like being in another world.”
“Your fans have been ecstatic,” the host went on. “That antagonist panel yesterday trended for hours. You and Darren Cole really lit up the stage.”
Emma pressed harder into her knee until she felt the bite of her nails. “Thanks. People have strong feelings about antiheroes.”
“Maybe, but most of all, the onstage chemistry between you and Darren was insane.” She leaned in, eyes glowing. “And I have to ask . . . today, a photo of the two of you backstage started making the rounds. Where you kind of looked like more than just co-panelists?”
She forced a laugh. It rang false even in her own ears. “Ah. That.” She lifted her shoulders, casual, dismissive. “People read too much into it. Darren and I went out in cosplay, and we were just joking around afterward. That’s all it was.”
“Joking around?” the host pressed, brows near her hairline. “Because it looked pretty—well, convincing.”
Despite the cozy chair, Emma sat rigid, every muscle locked. Her voice cooled by degrees. “You know how the internet works. A blurry photo, out of context, becomes a headline. It’s not what it looks like—it was nothing. Just a silly moment that people are blowing out of proportion.”
The host made a small noise, the eager friendliness replaced by a curl of her mouth. “And the stubborn rumors about Darren Cole as a front-runner to play Lucen—”
“Are just that,” Emma cut in, sharper than intended. “Rumors. The casting is an ongoing process, but my focus is on the book. That’s why I’m here.”
The host faltered for a beat before recovering. Out of the corner of her eye, Emma saw Leah shift her weight, subtle but disapproving.
Shame seeped into her bones. She hated herself for sounding cold. Hated that Darren’s shadow kept looming over her.
The rest of the questions blurred. Emma answered on autopilot, sentences clicking into place with mechanical precision. Competent. Hollow. Detached. She felt like she was describing someone else’s story, not her own.
When the ring lights finally snapped off, she stood too fast, her legs unsteady.
“That was fine,” Leah said when the host ducked out. Her tone was clipped, like a general counting casualties.
“Fine is enough,” Emma said. And then neither of them seemed to have anything more to say.
Emma walked out before the distance between them could start hurting too much. Each step rang with the lies she’d told.
It was nothing.
The metallic taste of it clung to her tongue. She held on to it, anyway. Because if she let the truth in—if she admitted what she might already have lost—she wasn’t sure she’d stay standing.