Page 50

I slipped the phone into my back pocket and leaned forward to tap the driver’s shoulder. “East Bay and Vendue,” I said. “Just past the bar called Liquid Courage.”
The driver nodded, and the rest of the ride passed in silence, the kind that felt too still, too expectant. Like a held breath before a storm.
When we pulled up, I saw them.
Reporters.
Three, maybe four of them, clustered near the bar’s front entrance like vultures in overpriced shoes, holding out their phones like microphones, cameras already lifted.
My stomach twisted.
They’d found me.
I stepped out of the cab slowly, sunglasses low on my nose, chin high as if I hadn’t just been suspended for “conduct unbecoming.” As if I hadn’t straddled a hacker in a mansion like he was both weapon and salvation.
One of them clocked me. “Miss Laveau! Vivienne! Is it true the board asked you to resign?”
Another chimed in, already filming. “Were you under the influence when you climbed the bridge? Is this your way of crying for help?”
Jesus.
I was halfway to growling something unprintable when the door to Liquid Courage swung open and a familiar voice shouted, “Back off. She’s with us.”
It was Reggie, one of the bartenders I’d known for years. Tattooed, six-foot-five, and meaner than a rattlesnake on tequila. Behind him, Cami popped her gum and crossed her arms, glaring daggers at the reporters.
“She’s family,” Cami said. “You want a quote? How about ‘get the fuck off our stoop?’”
I slipped past them with a grateful nod, the reporters still shouting questions behind me as the door slammed shut.
I hadn’t done the stunt for them.
God, no.
I wasn’t chasing internet fame. I wasn’t trying to go viral. I wasn’t looking to be the next glittery cautionary tale dissected on a podcast by strangers in hoodies sipping oat milk lattes.
Yes, maybe I’d done it for attention.
But not their attention.
Not for the vultures with ring lights and deadlines. Not for the think pieces about “unraveling artists” or the anonymous comments calling me a narcissist in a leotard.
I’d done it for the silence that came before the fall.
For the brief, perfect moment where I could breathe above the noise.
For the part of me that had always wondered if the world would catch me—or if I’d just disappear into it.
And I’d done it to see if he’d come. If Elias Dane, with all his control and composure, would step out of the shadows for me. If he’d see the chaos I carried and still decide I was worth reaching for.
Inside the building, the air smelled like tequila and sugar-sweat from last night’s crowd. Music played low—Fleetwood Mac—and the lights were dim, familiar. Comforting.
Reggie jerked his head toward the back stairs. “Go on, Vivi. They’re not getting past us. I promise. Your people are up there.”
I mouthed thank you and took the stairs two at a time, heart pounding harder with every step. Not just from the scene downstairs, but from Jessa’s message.
Easier for everyone.
Who the hell was everyone?