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I hug my knees to my chest, fighting back tears. I never meant to hurt Dan or overstep my bounds. I only wanted to support him, to get him out of his funk, to help him see the possibilities that lie ahead. But in my eagerness to help, I’ve lost sight of what really matters: Dan’s happiness, his autonomy, his right to make his own choices.

As their conversation continues, I realize I can’t bear to hear any more. Quietly, I slip back down the stairs and out the front door, desperate for some air. The cool breeze does little to soothe my troubled heart as I walk aimlessly down the driveway, wondering how I could have been so blind, so insensitive to Dan’s true feelings.

I need to make this right, to find a way to apologize and rebuild the trust I’ve so carelessly shattered. But first, I need to take a long, hard look at myself and my motivations. Because if I can’t be a friend without turning everything into business, then perhaps I have no business being in his life at all.

As I near the end of the driveway, I spot the journalist and photographer huddled together, reviewing the photos they’d taken earlier.

“…run with this one, Rhodes losing his cool,” the photographer says, flipping through the images on his camera. “Definitely caught him at his worst.”

The journalist nods, scribbling furiously in her notepad. “This is gold. We’ll run with the angle of the fallen star, the has-been who can’t handle the pressure of a comeback. ‘Dan Rhodes: Anger Issues and a Career in Shambles.’ It’s perfect.”

My heart sinks as I realize the gravity of the situation. Not only have I jeopardized my relationship with Dan, but I’ve also inadvertently fueled a media frenzy that could destroy his reputation and any chance he has at a peaceful life with Chloe.

I can’t let this happen. I won’t let my mistakes ruin Dan’s future.

With renewed determination, I approach the journalist and photographer, clearing my throat to get their attention. They look up, surprised to see me standing there.

“Excuse me,” I say, my voice steady despite the butterflies in my stomach. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

The journalist arches an eyebrow, her pen poised above her notepad. “Oh? And what might that be?”

I choose my words carefully. “Dan Rhodes isn’t some washed-up actor with anger issues. He’s a devoted father who’s been through an unimaginable loss. He’s a man who’s trying to do right by his daughter, to give her the love and stability she needs.”

The photographer lowers his camera, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. “But the photos… the way he reacted…”

“He reacted like any protective father would when his privacy is invaded,” I counter, my voice growing stronger with eachword. “He’s not interested in fame or a comeback. He just wants to be left alone to raise his daughter in peace.”

The journalist studies me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. “And why should we believe you? What’s your stake in all this?”

I meet her gaze head-on, my resolve unwavering. “Because I care about Dan and Chloe, and I made a mistake inviting you. It wasn’t my call to make, and I can’t bear to think I was responsible for a sensationalized headline. If you have any shred of decency, you’ll respect their privacy and let them be.”

A heavy silence falls, broken only by the distant sound of laughter from the house. Finally, the journalist sighs, tucking her notepad into her bag.

“Fine,” she says, her tone clipped. “We’ll drop the story. But you’d better hope Rhodes appreciates what you’ve done for him.”

With that, she unlocks her car and the two of them get it in. I watch them put on their seatbelts, my heart pounding in my chest as the weight of my actions settles upon me.

“Actually,” I rap my knuckles on the passenger window of the car. There’s a hesitation before it rolls down. “I’ve had a few glasses of wine, any chance of a lift into Biddeford if it’s on your way?”

“Things that bad back in the house?” The journalist chews on her bottom lip.

“Yeah.”

“Sure. Jump in. Excuse the mess.”

I slide into the backseat, my heart still racing from the confrontation. The leather seat feels cool against my skin as I buckle up, trying to hold back my tears.

“You sure you don’t want to join us for a drink?” the journalist asks, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. “Might help take the edge off.”

I shake my head, mustering a weak smile. “Thanks, but I think I need some time alone to process everything.”

The photographer shrugs, fiddling with his camera. “Suit yourself.”

“Where do you need to go?”

“The White Pines Motel.”

“I know it,” the journalist says as she presses the ignition.