Page 72 of Under Southern Stars
An hour later, just as things are starting to pick up, Nate finds me. “Got it sorted out. My neighbor, Mrs. Swanson—it turns out her flight got in earlier than she expected. She can take Paige. She’s on her way now.”
“Good,” I say. “How was Paige with Tasha?”
A rare, genuine smile touches Nate’s lips. “Actually…really good. When I went to check on them, Tasha was showing Paige how to make a butterfly out of a tongue depressor and some tape. Paige was actually laughing.” He shakes his head, a hint of wonder in his voice. “Never would have pegged Tasha for a craft queen.”
“People surprise you,” I say, thinking of Jack, of his unexpected transfer, his quiet pursuit.
When Nate’s neighbor, Mrs. Swanson, a kind-faced woman who looks like she bakes cookies for the entire street, arrives, Paige gives Tasha a quick, shy hug. Tasha, to her credit, looks almost as surprised as Paige, but she pats the girl’s shoulder awkwardly.
“See you around, kiddo,” Tasha says, trying for casual but her voice is a little softer than usual. “Let me know what you think about the ending of that book, okay?”
As Nate walks Paige out, I catch Tasha watching them go, a thoughtful, almost wistful expression on her face before her usual bored mask slips back into place.
Interesting. Very interesting.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
JACK
I close my laptop with more force than necessary, the image of Troy’s whining face still burned into my retinas.
“Oh, fuck right off, you discount Andrew Tate,” I mutter to the empty apartment.
The “AlphaTRex” content is gone—the vile posts about female “value,” the disgusting rants about daughters being “liabilities,” all of it scrubbed. But he’d replaced it with something almost as nauseating: a five-minute video of himself, looking appropriately somber in a black t-shirt, explaining how he is being “canceled by the woke mob” for “speaking truth to the feminized culture.” He’d even set up a donation link to “help fight back against censorship.”
Pathetic. But the primary goal is accomplished—Madison won’t stumble across the worst of it now. That is what matters.
I check my watch. Five hours until I need to pick up Sophia and Madison. My bag sits by the door, already packed with what little I’ll need. The rest—well, there is plenty waiting for me back home. My chest tightens at the thought.
Home. I am taking Sophia and Madison home.
I’ve been so careful. For three years, I’ve maintained the fiction that I’m just Jack McKenzie, paramedic, ordinary bloke who happens to have a Kiwi accent. The careful omissions. The strategic vagueness about my family’s “businesses.” The way I’ve casually deflected questions about my university days or why I’d really left New Zealand.
And for better or worse, it’s about to all come crashing down.
I sit on the edge of my bed, head in my hands. This is supposed to be a simple holiday—showing Sophia and Madison my country, my favorite places. But nothing about the McKenzie Estate is simple. Nothing about my family’s position in Otago is ordinary.
My phone buzzes.
Sophia: Just finished packing Madison's "essentials" bag. How she needs three pairs of headphones for one flight is beyond me. I'm actually more nervous than she is!
I smile despite my churning thoughts.
Jack: All part of teen travel protocol, apparently. Don't worry, I've handled enough post-party resuscitations to manage a 16-hour flight with a teenager.
