Page 83 of Lady and the Hitman
I pressed Command-S, watched the file save—only to realize I’d accidentally hit Command-Enter instead, triggering the shortcut that uploaded the draft straight to the publication’s live CMS. A new automation Chris had set up, supposedly to “streamline turnaround.”
I hadn’t even proofed it.
My stomach dropped.
Too late now. The piece was live. Headline blazing acrossThe Journal’s homepage.
My phone buzzed again.
Another email. This one from a reader named Janet K.
Subject line:“This is why we love you.”
I didn’t open it.
I couldn’t stomach the praise for a version of me that was quickly becoming a lie.
Instead, I grabbed my keys, shoved my laptop into its case, and bolted. I needed coffee. Or a walk. Or maybe a lightning strike—something to burn through this goddamn fog in my chest.
Outside, the humidity clung like regret. I walked fast, head down, past porches I knew too well, past the same corner bodega with the broken bell, past the same church with the rainbow flag and the sun-bleached Black Lives Matter sign. The neighborhood felt unchanged.
I was not.
My phone rang again just as I reached the iron gate of a shaded courtyard café.
Ronan.
His name lit up the screen like a dare.
I stood there, stomach twisting, then finally answered. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he said, voice low, textured, threaded with something that felt too intimate for the hour. “You okay?”
That was the thing about Ronan. He never started with small talk. Never asked what I was doing or tried to fill the silence with fluff. He just honed in on the parts of me I tried hardest to hide.
“Define okay,” I said, trying for lightness.
He didn’t laugh.
“Did you see the article?” I asked.
“I did.”
“And?”
“I think it’s a lot of noise designed to protect fragile egos.”
I exhaled. “You don’t think it’ll hurt the service?”
“It’ll hurt the women who use it more than anyone else.”
His words landed heavy.
“They asked me to write the response piece,” I said quietly.
He paused. “Of course, they did.”
“It’s what I do.”
