MasukCatherine's face changes."Stop slandering me," she says. Her voice has lost its composure for the first time since I walked into this room. It cracks at the edges, the specific sound of a woman who has just realized she's in a fight she didn't prepare for. "Stop threatening me. I'll get a lawyer. I'll sue you for defamation.""You're welcome to hire a lawyer, Mrs. Stone. But by the time this reaches a courtroom, your reputation won't be worth the filing fee."I hold up the voice recorder.Catherine's voice comes out of it. Clear. Unmistakable. The specific, high-fidelity capture of a recording made in a small room at close range."So what if I pushed you off the roof? You deserved to die. You just got lucky and survived when you were five..."The words play through the speaker. Then silence.Catherine's face goes from gray to white. The color of someone who has just watched herself confess to a crime on an
Catherine doesn't leave.She circles back. Returns to the bed. Stands over Mia with the specific, predatory posture of someone who has been waiting for this moment for a long time and is not finished.Mia is still in the corner. Smaller now. The way people get when they've been hit and the hit has reminded them of other hits, older ones, the kind that leave marks you can't see.Catherine's voice is vicious. Controlled. Each word placed with the precision of someone who has practiced this speech."I don't know what my brother and his wife were thinking. They rushed back to celebrate your birthday and died for it. A plane crash. Because of you. Because of a child they shouldn't have adopted in the first place."Mia says nothing."And George." Catherine's lip curls. "Foolish boy. Defending you all these years. Protecting a bastard sprung from who knows where.""I'm not a bastard," Mia says. Her voice is quiet.
A hundred questions. A thousand suspicions.Why does everything happen in sequence, each event feeding the next like pieces on a board? Someone frames me for the necklace. Then a gunman shows up at a rooftop. Then a media campaign launches against me with the speed and precision of something that was planned in advance.Each incident, on its own, could be coincidence. Together, they form a pattern. And the pattern has a shape that I can almost see but not quite, like a face pressing against frosted glass.The first person I think of is Mia.But the math doesn't work.Liam trusts her. That's one problem. The bigger problem is the hostage situation. Mia was on that rooftop with a gun to her head and a man holding her by the throat. She nearly died. She did nearly die. If the gunman hadn't slipped, if Liam hadn't caught her, if the crowd hadn't pulled them back, Mia Stone would be dead.Nobody orchestrates their own near
I understand now.The crowd. The signs. The matching shirts. The organized, coordinated energy of people who showed up at a specific hospital at a specific time to confront a specific person.They're Mia Stone's fans.I should have guessed. The language on the signs, the terminology, the specific vocabulary of celebrity fandom: "Heavenly Empress," "get out of the entertainment industry," "home wrecker." These aren't random strangers with opinions. These are devoted followers who have been told, online, in real time, that the woman they love is being wronged by the woman standing in front of them.I can argue with three people. Maybe five.I cannot argue with ten women who are screaming and throwing water bottles and swinging promotional boards like weapons.The first bottle hits the ground beside my foot. The second grazes my shoulder. The promotional board catches the edge of my arm and the plastic cuts a thin line a
The journalists are still outside.I can see them through the hospital's ground-floor windows, a wall of cameras and microphones and the specific, hungry energy of people who have just been handed the story of the year. By tomorrow morning, every outlet in Chicago will have the same headline: Mia Stone, rooftop, gunman, fall. Liam Hart, hero. And somewhere in the fine print, my name. The wife who stood behind the perimeter and watched the whole thing.George arrives thirty minutes later.He comes through the hospital entrance at a pace that's almost a run, his suit jacket unbuttoned, his hair off-center, dust on his shoes from a terminal floor. I've never seen George look anything other than composed. Right now he looks terrified."How is she? Where is she?"His voice breaks on the last word. His eyes are wet."Neurology," Liam says. "Third floor. She's sedated."George doesn't wait for more. He pushes thro
His hand leaves Mia's neck.For one second, everything holds. The man is at the edge. Mia is free. Liam is two feet away. The gun is pointed at the ground. The crowd behind the perimeter is holding its breath.Then the man's face changes.He sees something. Some expression on Mia's face, some micro-second flicker that tells him what he already suspected. She's not going to agree. She was never going to agree. The proposal, the marriage, the fantasy he's been building in his head for months, none of it was real. It was his. Only his."You lied to me!" he screams, lunging forward. "She would never agree! She would never!"His hand grabs Mia's wrist.The gun comes up.Liam moves first.He steps forward and knocks the gun out of the man's grip. It clatters across the concrete, spinning toward the far wall. The man stumbles, his balance gone, his feet sliding on the smooth rooftop surface.
Allie Brooks’ thoughts were racing as something clicked in her mind. A flash of memory surfaced, vivid and startling.She turned abruptly to George Smith, seated next to her in the car. “The person we’re picking up... it’s not Julian Ford, is it?” she asked, a hint of apprehension in her voice.Geo
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No wonder Allie felt a strange sense of familiarity when she first saw the name on the business card.Although Time Entertainment didn’t have the long-standing legacy of Starlight Entertainment, it had gained immense influence in the industry over the past few years. In a short span, Time Entertain







