The first slide reads: Beneath Our Scars.
Under it's a blurred photograph of Ember House's garden.
My stomach turns before my mind's finished cataloging the details. The path's blurred, but I know the curve. The bench is softened at the edges, but I know the placement beneath the maple. The side of the building's cropped close enough to avoid being obvious and close enough that anyone who livesthere would recognize the doorway. The copy beneath is worse because it's gentle.
A family-held sanctuary for survival, healing, and the stories that lead others home.
I swipe once. The next slide uses another image, this one taken from beyond the eastern fence, looking toward the courtyard. No faces are clear, but a resident sits on the swing with her shoulders rounded in a posture I know because I've watched Luca sit beside her there while she learned to speak above a whisper. The blur doesn't protect her. It only makes the violation prettier.
I hear Luca's breath change behind me.
Dorian says, "These are samples only. Internal concept work. Nothing's gone outside the exploratory group."
I swipe again before I answer. The third slide carries a line from Luca's public interview years ago, the one he gave after Ember House had been open long enough for donors to ask for a face and Luca'd agreed to offer only what he could survive. They've cut the sentence in half. They removed the part about systems failing vulnerable Omegas. They removed the part about privacy being the first real kindness anyone gave him. What remains is polished, hopeful, and almost unrecognizable.
I learned that scars can become doors.
Luca never said that.
The pressure in my chest tightens once, sharp enough that I have to breathe through my nose before I speak. I keep my voice level because if I give Dorian heat, he'll try to use it. "Who took these photographs?"
Dorian's face softens into something close to concern. "Blake, I understand the sensitivity. That's why they're blurred and marked internal. The grounds are visible from public access points, and the language is based on public-facing material. The intention's to explore mission continuity, not to expose anyone."
"You used a resident image."
"Unidentifiable."
"Identifiable to us." I turn the tablet enough that he can see the slide without taking it back. "That's enough."
His eyes dip to the image, then return to me. "A legal review would determine whether there's any actual exposure. From a campaign standpoint, the effect's powerful and respectful. We're not naming her. We're not naming Luca beyond language already associated with his public advocacy."
I feel Luca's fingers tighten around mine at the word advocacy. He doesn't move from behind me, but the air around him goes thinner. I shift my stance, blocking more of him from Dorian's view, and Dorian notices. His gaze flickers down to our linked hands for less than a second before returning to my face.
"That interview's public," he says gently. "The language is adapted, but the source material isn't private."
"You changed the meaning."
"We refined it for accessibility."
"You removed the part where Luca said privacy kept him alive." I swipe back to the title slide and hold the tablet at my side. "Then you put his altered words over an image of the place he built to give other people that same privacy."
Dorian's expression holds. I'll give him that. Most men show annoyance when they're caught. Dorian shows patience, which is worse because patience's always been part of the weapon.
He lowers his voice as though he's protecting Luca from my reaction instead of from his own work. "No one's trying to harm him. The mockups are an attempt to create a funding pathway that honors what Ember House represents. Consent language would be built into any later phase, and all final materials would go through appropriate approval."
"No."
The word comes out quiet. Dorian pauses, either because he expected more or because he wants me to fill the space with something less controlled. I don't. I hand the tablet to my other side, away from Luca and away from Dorian, and use my phone to photograph the screen. Title slide, resident slide, altered interview language, file name visible in the corner. Dorian's mouth tightens for the first time.
"Blake," he says, and there's still warmth in it, but less. "That's internal material."
"Preserved for counsel."
"You're escalating a concept draft before anyone's had a chance to address your concerns."
I look at him then. Not at the tablet, not at Luca, not at the camera dome tucked into the hallway ceiling. Just him. "You cornered my husband outside a private room and showed him edited language from his own history over unauthorized images of Ember House. You did it after we excluded sanctuary visibility in writing. You did it without counsel present, without Luther, without me, without Maceo, and without anyone who could tell Luca he was allowed to walk away without being made responsible for the consequences."
Dorian's smile disappears slowly enough that he probably thinks it looks dignified.
