We survived the first one.
And maybe that’s more important than any headline waiting to break.
I’m thinking of the rainbow flags. The kid’s sign. The woman mouthing, “Thank you.” I’m thinking of how the boos didn’t matter as much as I thought they would.
Vinny’s voice cuts in from the front seat. “We need to revisit the restraining order.”
The reality settles like a cold hand on the back of my neck.
Rafe’s head turns toward the front immediately. “What now?”
Vinny’s eyes flick to the rearview mirror, catching mine for half a second. He doesn’t look alarmed. That’s what alarms me.
“It’s not a new incident,” Vinny says. “Not yet. But something surfaced.”
My stomach churns as Rafe asks, “What surfaced?”
Vinny doesn’t answer right away. He reaches into the center console, pulls out his phone, taps the screen a few times, then extends it backward without taking his eyes off the road.
A news alert fills the display.
My name is in it. Rafe’s name is in it.
And beneath the headline is her face.
Even in a thumbnail she looks unhinged—eyes red-rimmed, hair pulled tight, expression too intense for something that should have been over.
EXCLUSIVE: ‘I WAS BETRAYED’ — WOMAN INVOLVED IN ORTIZ INCIDENT SPEAKS OUT
My pulse stutters, and Rafe’s fingers squeeze mine.
I scroll without thinking. There’s a short, embedded clip. Bright studio lights. A podcast backdrop. She’s talking fast, hands cutting through the air, mascara slightly smudged like she wants to look fragile but not undone.
A caption runs along the bottom.
“He promised me… and then he chose him.”
My vision narrows. Anger hits first. Sharp and immediate. Then something colder creeps in underneath it.
Vinny takes the phone back. “Legal’s already looped in. Rachael knows. Police are aware. But if she’s giving interviews, she’s not done.”
Rafe’s jaw clenches. “She shouldn’t have access to press.”
“It’s not hard,” Vinny replies evenly. “Not when there’s a story people can monetize.”
Miles leans forward slightly from the seat beside Rafe. His voice is calm, but there’s a harder edge under it now. “Was she actually charged?” he asks. “Or just detained?”
Vinny nods once. “Charged. Assault with a deadly weapon. Bail was posted.”
“Jesus,” Miles mutters.
I stare at the back of the passenger seat.
Charged.
Bail posted.
Interview booked.
