Page 87 of Lady and the Hitman
It felt like the whole world would be watching.
My imagination? Maybe.
But paranoia had a way of blooming fast when the gossip vines started growing.
I stepped inside, dropped my bag by the door, and kicked off my sandals with a little too much force. The townhouse was cool, dim, and still—the kind of stillness that lets every thought echo louder than it should. My phone buzzed as I climbed the stairs. Another email. Then another. A missed call from a producer I didn’t recognize. A voicemail from a student needing advising. A text from a colleague:“This piece is going to make waves. You okay with that?”
I didn’t respond to any of it.
Instead, I walked into the bathroom, turned the water on hot, and stripped off the afternoon like it was a costume I was done performing in.
The shower hissed to life, fogging the mirror and softening the light. I stepped in and let it scald me. Let itsteam the porch gossip and the guilt from my skin. I washed my hair slowly, deliberately, like it could help me remember who I was before all of this—before him. But even then, even under the weight of water and eucalyptus, I knew I wasn’t trying to go back.
I was preparing. Becoming.
I shaved carefully—ankles, knees, thighs. Lotioned every inch of skin with the same patience I used to reserve for interviews and student recs. Slid the glass bottle of rose oil across my collarbones. Used the nice body scrub I always saved for special occasions, even though I’d long since stopped believing in the kind of special that came with champagne and long dinners.
This was a different kind of occasion.
By the time I stepped out, the sun had dipped low enough to stain the bathroom window amber. I wrapped myself in a towel and padded barefoot into the bedroom, ignoring the blinking laptop, the texts that kept appearing like a drumbeat I refused to march to.
I was clean. Smooth. Soft in all the right places.
And terrified.
But somewhere under the fear, under the heat still coiled in my belly from just thinking about him, I also felt still. Certain.
This was mine.
And if it all blew up tomorrow—if the whispers turned into headlines and the headlines turned into professional collapse—I wouldn’t be destitute. I’d been frugal for years. I lived below my means. I had savings. Investments. A backup plan, like any good Southern woman raised by parents who knew the system would never quite be on their side.
I could weather the storm. I might not land on my feet, but I wouldn’t break on impact.
And anyway, what was the alternative?
To spend my whole life writing about fire while never stepping close enough to feel the heat?
I walked to the closet and ran my fingers along the dresses—floral, linen, academic, a little self-consciously feminist. But none of them felt right. None of them felt like they belonged to the version of me who had been hunted through the underbrush and then held like a secret.
I finally settled on something I’d bought on impulse last fall and never worn. Silk. Midnight blue. Slit up one side, fitted through the waist, thin straps. It was elegant enough to pass for respectable and sinful enough to undo me if he touched me just right.
Perfect.
I slipped it on, let the fabric cool against my skin, then turned toward the mirror. My face was flushed, my pulse visible at my throat. I reached for mascara, brushed it on with a steadier hand than I felt. A swipe of lip balm. Tiny gold hoops. A spray of perfume behind each ear.
Not armor. Not disguise.
Just … readiness.
I still had forty minutes.
But I couldn’t sit still.
So, I paced. Sipped water. Checked my phone only to set it down again. I wasn’t going to read the reactions. Not now. Not tonight. Let them argue. Let them pick it apart. The version of me they were debating didn’t exist—not really.
And the man I was seeing?
He didn’t exist for them at all.
