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I sigh. “This better not end with me on a magazine cover.”

She raises her tea in salute. “If it does, you better save me a signed copy. Sam and I will pore over it while we eat dinner.”

“You’re insane.”

“And if, by any chance, you run into Jack, can you please get me an autograph? Or a picture? Or maybe a video shoutout?” She grins. “I want it to say, ‘Thank you, Emma, for being a longstanding fan. I appreciate your support.’ Simple and short.”

“Yeah, right.”

With Emma breathing down my neck, I text Nova Chambers back.

JACK

The car pulls up outside Nova’s office building in Beverly Hills, all glass and sharp edges, the kind of place that smells like overpriced espresso and constant damage control. I slide my sunglasses down just enough to glance at the building’s front door, then back at Brody, who’s scrolling through his phone like he’s defusing a bomb.

“You gonna tell me what this is about, or do I have to bribe it out of you with Lakers tickets?”

He doesn’t even look up. “She didn’t say. Just ‘urgent,’ ‘show up,’ and ‘look alive.’ Her words, not mine.”

“‘Look alive?’ I’m already offended.”

“Honestly, I’d be more worried about whether she’s armed.”

“She’s always armed. Mostly with sarcasm and soul-crushing disappointment.”

Brody smirks. “Then you better start stretching your feelings.”

I sigh and climb out, adjusting my leather jacket. It’s been a week since the scandal hit the news, and I’ve just started to feelnormal again. I even got a full night’s sleep last night—which, in my world, is practically a mental health retreat.

The elevator doors open on the top floor, and as soon as we step out, I hear Nova’s voice echoing down the hall. Not yelling. Worse. Clipped, professional, and angry in that terrifying way where you know she’s smiling on the outside and plotting your public execution on the inside.

Brody mutters, “Good luck,” then peels off toward the waiting area like he wants no part in what’s about to happen.

I knock once and push into her office.

Nova looks up, every inch the unflappable queen of damage control in a sharp navy pantsuit and perfectly smooth bun. She taps her stylus against her tablet with slow, deadly precision.

“Have a seat,” she says.

I slide into the chair across from her, lounging like I’ve got not a single care in the world. Because right now, that’s my only defense.

“So. How mad are we talking?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Medium-to-high.” She sets the stylus down and folds her hands. “But it doesn’t matter. Because I’ve found the solution.”

I grin. “Knew you would. What is it this time? Secret charity? Tearful apology interview with Oprah?”

“No.”

“No?”

“We’re taking a different route.”

I narrow my eyes. “Define different.”

Nova leans back. “We’re going to reform your public image. Entirely.”

I blink. “Entirely?”