Chapter 39
AMY
The air in Rex’s office feels electric—like the moment just before lightning strikes.
Holoscreens glow behind him, but the room is otherwise dim.
The scent of old coffee and scanner heat lingers.
I stand at the edge of the big desk, palms pressed flat, feeling the coolness of the glass and metal under my skin. My heart hammers as I look at him.
“Darun,” I say, voice steady but hollow. “I want him in the prime-time slot. A full, uncut interview. Let him speak on his own terms.”
Rex folds his fingers together, leans forward.
His eyes flick to the slate on his desk—metrics, red flags, sponsor logos blinking.
He says slowly, “You realize what that means. Exposure, pushback, legal nightmares.” He steeples his fingers.
“Only if he’s compelling. If he can carry a narrative, not just tragedy. ”
I lift my chin. “He is both. But he’s more than that. People deserve to see him—not as a wounded shell, but as something alive, something transformed.”
Rex exhales, rubbing the stubble on his cheek. “All right. One week. We schedule. Legal oversight. Production buffers. If it leaks early, we shut it down.”
I nod, voice quiet but fierce: “Deal.”
His face softens a fraction. “I’ll bet on you—and on him. But tread carefully.”
From his office to my car, I replay that moment. The tension, that itch in my chest. I grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles whiten. Outside, the city lights blur past.
Home is soft. The apartment is warm; evening light seeps through slats, pooling on the floor.
I set a bottle of cheap wine on the table—ruby swirl, cheap but honest. The smell of garlic bread warms the kitchen.
I open jars, pull out olives and cheese.
No sweeping feast. Something simple. Something human.
Darun hovers by the kitchen counter, apron half on. He stirs sauce in a pot, steam lifting, tangy tomato mixed with sweet spice. The scent curls into my chest. I join him, spoon in hand. He hands me the jar of olives. The air sizzles, soft with promise.
Libra bursts in wearing bits of glitter and yarn: her sign, the lopsided “DARRUNN SHOW!” is now taped over the kitchen doorframe. She beams with pride. “I made it perfect!” she says, hands on hips. She’s sticky from glue, dusted glitter in hair. Her eyes still carry wonder.
We laugh. Darun raises a spoon to her. “A taste of chef’s special?” She nods fiercely. We feed her, watching her small teeth chew, the sauce dangling. The world is loud outside. Inside is warm.
Later, the three of us—Darun, Libra, me—sit at the little table.
The candles flicker. Wine glints red. Potatoes roasted.
The conversation was tender and real. Darun asks Libra about school.
She tells jokes. Darun listens like each word is a gem.
I watch him. I watch her. I feel something heavy in my heart lighten.
After dinner, after dishes, we drift to the couch. The city beyond the windows glows, cars hum, distant sirens fade. Libra curls into cushions and finds her coloring book. The apartment quietly hums around us.
Darun takes my hand, fingers intertwined. “You know this matters,” he murmurs. “This all matters.”
I nod, squeeze his hand. My voice soft, “It means everything.”
We talked about preparing for the show. How we’ll frame questions, buffer negative pushback. I tell him: “We’ll go live. No redactions. We’ll walk through legal walls together.”
His eyes shine and he nods.
Night falls soft. I slip from the kitchen, walk down the hallway, pause in the door to the bedroom.
The room is dim—moonlight through blinds.
I watch Darun asleep, face relaxed in that gentleness.
Libra is curled beside him, hand draped over the curve of his tail.
She breathes soft, weight warm against him.
I stand, the air sticky with wine and memory. My heart audibly rumbles in my chest. They breathe in rhythm—father and daughter, a tableau of what I never dared dream.