The phone rang again before the silence could settle.
“The foundation remains focused—” I caught myself mid-sentence, realizing I’d already said it aloud before even picking up. My throat tightened.
Naomi looked over, her brow furrowing. “You need a break.”
“I need to stay ahead of this,” I said, too quickly. “If I stop, it gets worse.”
She didn’t argue. She just slid a cup of coffee toward me, eyes softening in quiet understanding.
As I lifted it to my lips, I caught the faint tremor in my hand.
Every time someone said his name—Beckett Mason—it landed like a bruise I couldn’t hide. They said it with judgment, with gossip, with satisfaction, as if his mistakes were their entertainment.
And every single time, I wanted to defend him.
I wanted to tell them he wasn’t what they thought—that he’d shown up when no one else had, that he’d been kind when he didn’t have to be. That the man they were tearing apart had been my safe place, even if only for a night.
But defending him would only make it worse.
So I swallowed it down. Every instinct, every truth.
And I went back to my script.
“The foundation remains focused on our programs,” I said again, my voice calm, even, unbreakable.
Inside, though, it felt like drowning in plain sight, especially with the looming Zoom call I had to attend for the board.
The Zoom window loaded, filling the screen with anxious faces in little digital boxes. Each board member wore the same expression—tight smiles, darting eyes, the kind of forced calm that meant everyone had already read the headlines.
“Good morning,” I said, keeping my voice even as I adjusted the camera. The foundation logo sat proudly behind me, a little too bright against the gray of the morning light streaming through the blinds. “Let’s get started.”
Mr. Walters, the oldest board member, cleared his throat first. He looked like he’d been up all night. “We’re… concerned, Ellery. The board’s worried about public trust. The optics of this situation?—”
I didn’t let him finish. “Our mission hasn’t changed,” I said firmly. “We don’t trade impact for gossip. The work we do still matters. That hasn’t changed because of a headline.”
There was a pause—a quiet, uncertain one. The kind that said I was either winning them over or losing them completely.
Ms. Liu spoke next, her tone careful but clipped. “That’s admirable, but some of our sponsors may still pull funding. The rumor mill moves faster than reason, and people get skittish when their names are attached to controversy.”
“I understand,” I said, clasping my hands on the desk to hide the tremor in them. “But our programs don’t exist because of gossip. They exist because of commitment—to these kids, to this town, to the promise that we can make things better. If sponsors want out, we’ll find new ones. Our kids come first.”
The line went quiet. Someone coughed. Someone else shifted in their chair.
I’d meant to sound composed, but the words came out sharper, fiercer than I intended. Maybe because I was tired of defending what should’ve been obvious.
Mr. Walters finally nodded, sighing. “You always did have fire, Ellery. Let’s just… try to keep this from escalating further, all right?”
“Of course,” I said, my smile professional and hollow. “We’ll release a statement by the end of the day reiterating our mission. I’ll take responsibility for the narrative.”
He smiled faintly, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m sure you will.”
When the call ended, the sudden silence was deafening.
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the black screen that still reflected my face. I looked put together—every hair in place, shirt crisp, expression unreadable. But my pulse was still hammering.
Naomi peeked around the doorway with her laptop balanced on one hand. “You sound terrifying,” she said, her voice somewhere between awe and concern. “I’m proud.”
I huffed a laugh, short and uneven. “Terrifying’s better than fragile.”
