"You're going on TV — say you only love me." "I always say the line you ask for." "Good. Remember your smile." "Don't worry. I've rehearsed your favorite look." He hung up before I could reply. Jayla's text popped: coffee at twelve. I locked my phone and stepped into the café. "Lucia Moore," the girl at the corner table said before I sat. "Aubree Bonner. I prefer face-to-face." "Of course." I sat. My shoes kept their polite silence. The barista placed two lattes between us like a referee. "You know why I'm here." Aubree placed a folded paper on the table. It landed like an accusation. "I assume it's a miracle or a confession," I said. "One of the two." Aubree smiled in the way actresses smile when they think people are watching. "I didn't want to have to do this. But you chose public life. People need to know the truth." "Then tell me," I said. "Tell me who's fathering this future sensation." "A doctor’s note." She slid it across the wood. "Three months. Hallmark clean. I could—" Her voice dipped. "I could go to the press." "Right." I picked up the paper with one hand and pretended to read while Jayla's voice buzzed through my earbuds: 'Two seconds. Got the rest.' I let her record run. "You won't," Aubree tried. "Not without exposing me. Not without ruining me. I need—" "You need money," I finished. "You