Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Charity
We barely moved for a long time after Fortuna vanished. Just settled onto the hotel bed with Lucky sleeping between us, letting the world drift back into its normal shape.
When my hands finally stopped shaking, we called a journalist Laura recommended, Nora Mann.
She listened without interrupting, her voice steady as stone, and when we told her we wanted to speak on the record, she simply said, “Come tomorrow at ten, if that works. You can tell the truth in your own words.”
Now, standing in front of the hotel mirror while the city hums outside the window, I try to breathe slowly enough to steady my heartbeat. In a few hours, millions of people will see me as I truly am for the first time. Not my parents’ daughter. Not a headline. Just… me.
The woman looking back at me seems steadier than I feel. Like she’s already decided who she is, and I’m just catching up.
The navy dress is simple—elegant without trying too hard. Professional but not stuffy. I paired it with my pearl earrings and single-strand necklace, and then pulled my platinum hair back in a low twist. Trying to look credible, mature, like someone whose choices should be taken seriously.
Draco appears in the doorway, and I turn to see what he's chosen.
Black jeans. A dark gray henley. His leather jacket. The same boots he wears for street performances.
"You're not changing?" I ask.
"Into what?" He looks genuinely confused.
"Something more… formal? We're going on camera."
"I'm going as me." He says it simply, like it's obvious. "If people can't handle that, they won't handle anything else we have to say."
He's right. Of course he's right. But my hands still shake as I reach for my coat.
We stop by the front desk on our way out—one of the front desk staff promised to keep an eye on Lucky while we're gone, and he perked up at the attention like he owned the place.
Twenty minutes later, our taxi crawls through Manhattan traffic while my stomach performs acrobatics.
"You're going to wear a hole in it," Draco says, nodding at where I'm worrying the seam of my jacket.
I force my hands to still. "What if this backfires? What if we make everything worse?"
"Then we deal with it." He takes my hand and threads our fingers together. "But at least it'll be our story. Our truth. Not whatever narrative your parents or the media wants to spin."
Nora Mann's office is in a converted brownstone in the West Village—the kind of place that screams understated professionalism. Nothing flashy, nothing desperate for attention. Just solid, credible journalism.
Exactly what we need.
A young assistant greets us at the door and leads us upstairs to a room that's been set up for filming. Two chairs angled toward each other, soft lighting that makes everything look warm instead of like a criminal interrogation, cameras positioned to feel conversational rather than confrontational.
Nora rises when we enter. She's younger than I expected—maybe late thirties—with kind eyes and an air of calm competence that would put me at ease if my heart wasn't trying to escape my chest.
"Thank you for trusting me with this," she says, shaking our hands. "I know live interviews are nerve-wracking, but I promise this will be conversational, not confrontational."
"Live?" My voice comes out higher than intended.
"Live," Nora confirms gently. "I could swear we discussed this on the phone. It's actually better this way—no editing, no manipulation, just your authentic story. We'll stream it on our platform, and it goes out in real-time. Thirty minutes, max."
Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes where anything I say will be permanent, uneditable, out there forever.
Draco's hand finds mine. "We've got this. Better than letting everyone else tell our story for us," Draco says.
Nora smiles. "That's the spirit. This is your story—I'm just helping you tell it."
She walks us through the setup, shows us where to look and gestures to the bottles of water on the tables at our sides.
"Ready?" she asks.
Draco squeezes my hand. I squeeze back.
"Ready."
The cameras roll.
"We're live in three… two…" The camera operator points at Nora.
"Good afternoon. I'm Nora Mann, and today I'm speaking with Charity Pembroke and Draco about their relationship and the media storm that's followed them over the past few days. Thank you both for being here."
My mouth is dry. Draco's thumb strokes across my knuckles—once, grounding.
"Let's start simply," Nora says. "How did you two meet?"
Draco doesn't hesitate. "I was squatting in her family's cottage. Not my proudest moment, but I needed somewhere to stay, and it looked empty."
I watch Nora's expression—she doesn't flinch, doesn't judge. Just nods for me to continue.
"I found him there," I say. "He didn't try to con me or make excuses. He was just… honest. He offered to leave immediately."
"But you asked him to stay."
"I did. And then he found Lucky for me—our shaggy dog. I'd mentioned I always wanted a pet, and he brought me this rescue he'd found."
"Lucky's a good wingman," Draco adds with a slight smile.
Nora leans forward. "Charity, you recently walked away from a substantial inheritance. Can you talk about that decision?"
Here it is. The question that defines everything.
"My parents gave me an ultimatum," I say, forcing my voice steady.
"Choose my family and their expectations, or choose my own life.
They thought it was an easy choice—who would walk away from that kind of security?
" I pause, making sure I get this right.
"But I'd been living in a beautiful cage my entire life.
Draco didn't break me out—he just showed me that the door was already open. I chose to walk through it."
"Do you regret it?"
"No." The word comes without hesitation. "I regret that it had to come to this. I regret that my parents couldn't accept my choices. But I don't regret choosing myself. Or him."
Nora turns to Draco. "You've been identified as one of the men from the Second Chance Sanctuary—scientifically verified as having been preserved in ice for two thousand years. What's it like, being thrust into the spotlight after choosing anonymity?"
"Terrifying," he admits. "I spent months building a quiet life. And then suddenly I'm on every tabloid, being called a gold digger, watching people dissect my relationship like it's entertainment."
"How do you respond to that accusation?"
His jaw tightens. “Charity gave up her inheritance. I never asked her to do that; just like I never asked her to do what would have been required to keep the family money. Our relationship has never been about finances. Whether she had everything or nothing at all, I’d still be here.”
"What do you say to people who think this happened too fast?"
We look at each other. I see two thousand years of survival in his eyes, and something else—the way he looks at me like I'm the first real thing he's found in this new world.
"I say they don't know what it's like to find your person," I answer. "The one who makes you braver and freer and more yourself. When you find that, you don't walk away just because the timing is inconvenient."
"She's worth fighting for," Draco says simply. "Whatever the media says, whatever obstacles get thrown at us—she's worth it."
Nora asks a few more questions—about our future, about how we're handling scrutiny. At one point, she brings up the challenges of his background, and Draco cuts through it with an edge I've rarely heard.
"That's insulting to both of us," he says. "It assumes I'm manipulative, and she's helpless. Charity is one of the strongest people I've ever met. She doesn't need protecting from me—she needs support in her own choices."
I fall a little more in love with him right then.
"Thank you both," Nora says as the thirty-minute mark hits. "I think you've given people a lot to think about."
The camera light goes off.
Nora thanks us, then adds quietly, "For what it's worth, I think you two are the real thing. Good luck."
The taxi ride back to the hotel is quiet at first. We're both wrung out, emotionally exhausted from putting ourselves on display like that.
"You were amazing," I finally say.
"We were amazing." He pulls me against his side. "You didn't back down once."
I rest my head on his shoulder, watching Manhattan blur past the windows. “You know what’s ironic?”
“What?”
“The tabloids saying you’re with me for money,” I say softly. “As if you’ve ever asked me for anything. You’ve never wanted my money. Not once.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then, “Your money never mattered to me. Still doesn’t.”
“I know.” I kiss his jaw. “That's why I fell in love with you. You never needed me for anything except… me.”
“That’s the part that counts,” he says. “The only part that ever did.”
The taxi pulls up to the hotel, and the sidewalk is mercifully empty. No cameras flashing, no shouted questions. Just the quiet hum of the city going on about its business, blissfully unaware of us
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Then Draco’s. Then mine again.
“Should we look?” I ask.
Draco already has his phone out. He scrolls once, then shows me the screen.
A verified news account, timestamped three minutes after we went off air:
That was the most genuine interview I’ve seen in years. Two people just… being honest. Refreshing.
Another, from a cultural critic:
Watched the Pembroke–Draco interview. Expected scandal. Got a love story.
And an entertainment reporter:
Can we talk about how he defended her agency? More of this, please.
My hands shake as I scroll through more responses. Not all positive—some skeptics, a few cynics—but the tone has shifted. Less vicious. More… curious. Open.
“They’re listening,” I whisper.
“Some of them,” Draco says, but he’s smiling.
We step through the hotel doors hand in hand. A few guests glance up—polite curiosity, not hostility.
My fingers brush the pepper spray in my coat pocket—reflex, not fear.
Assess, then act.
One glance tells me everything I need: busy lobby, distracted people, no danger. I let my hand fall away.
The young man at the front desk waves us toward a small lounge where Lucky waits on a blanket he clearly believes belongs to him now. His cone knocks against the coffee table as he stands, tail thumping, and the familiar chaos of him grounds us both after the surreal intensity of the interview.
Back in our room, Draco slides the lock into place, and the click feels significant.
The little kitchenette across from the beds glows softly in the under-cabinet lights.
There’s a mini-fridge, microwave, and the narrow strip of counter that’s somehow become our makeshift landing spot for takeout containers.
The world is still out there—watching, judging, reacting. But in here, it’s just us and a dog wearing plastic headgear like a crown.
“We did it,” I say, still not quite believing it.
“We did.” He pulls me close, and I can feel his heartbeat finally settling. “How do you feel?”
“Terrified. Relieved. Like I just jumped off a cliff and haven't hit bottom yet.”
“For a second,” he admits quietly, “I thought you might regret choosing me once the world saw everything.”
The confession slips out before he can catch it, raw enough that his eyes widen like he didn’t mean to say it aloud.
“I don’t,” I whisper immediately. “Not for a heartbeat.”
His exhale is shaky—barely—but real. A small crack in his confidence sealing itself as quickly as it appeared.
“Yeah.” He kisses my forehead. “That sounds about right.”
Lucky circles our legs, thumping his cone against our thighs in approval. Draco rests his forehead against mine, and for a moment the room feels impossibly small and safe.
“We should… figure out where we’re going next,” I say softly. “Something more permanent than a hotel room.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “But whatever it is? We’ll choose it together
And we breathe—just breathe—in a quiet room above the city, the world buzzing outside, the future wide open.
And we survived.