Stacy didn’t sleep that night.

She lay awake on the couch, Lily curled beside her, the city pressing in from all sides. Every sound outside … a car engine, footsteps on the stairs, the soft creak of pipes … felt like a threat. Her phone buzzed once around 3:00 a.m., an anonymous number texting only an eye emoji and a blurry shot of her building’s front door.

She didn’t reply.

By morning, the burner phone was powered off and wrapped in foil in the freezer. Not because she thought it would help. Just because Axel had mentioned once in an interview that old-school paranoia was often the smartest kind.

Lily stirred around 7:00 a.m., earbuds dangling from one ear, hair a mess. She blinked blearily at Stacy. “Is it over?”

Stacy shook her head. “Not yet.”

Lily sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Was that him last night?”

“Yeah.”

“Did he fix it?”

“No.”

Silence. Then Lily pulled the blanket tighter and muttered, “Rich people are useless.”

Stacy didn’t argue.

~ ~ ~

By noon, the story had mutated.

A new headline was trending on X:

MYSTERY GIRL NO MORE? FASHION WEEK FIASCO HAS A NAME

It was her. Her name. Not just a blind item or a blurry zoomed-in still. Full legal name. High school city. Ex-boyfriend quotes. A TikTok she’d posted six years ago had already been stitched into oblivion by morning show interns mining content like it was gold.

There was no going back now.

Tamsin called just after 2:00 p.m.

“Don’t scream,” she warned.

“That’s not reassuring.”

“I have a contact at Barrage. They want to offer you an interview. A clean profile, full editorial control. Something glossy to humanize you.”

Stacy almost laughed. “You mean, weaponize me.”

“I mean reframe you,” Tamsin said. “Before someone else does.”

“I’m not giving them an exclusive just to become another PR casualty.”

“You already are one.”

That landed. Hard.

“Meet me at the bar on 9th,” Tamsin said. “Wear sunglasses. And don’t bring your phone.”

Click.

~ ~ ~

The bar was one of those deliberately dingy places with taxidermy on the walls and $16 cocktails made with ingredients like “basil smoke.” Tamsin was already there, two drinks deep and dressed like a Vogue intern moonlighting as a spy … black trench, oversized scarf, mirrored glasses.

“You look like a conspiracy theory,” Stacy said, sliding into the booth.

“Thank you.”

Tamsin pushed a folder across the table. Inside: a mockup spread of the Barrage article. Photos already chosen. One of them was from a rooftop shoot Stacy had done two years ago for a friend’s zine. She hadn’t known it was still online.

“Do I have a choice here?” Stacy asked.

“No,” Tamsin said, honest at least. “But you do have leverage. Axel’s name still hasn’t been dropped. That makes you the variable.”

Stacy leaned back. “So what…you want me to threaten him with exposure?”

“Not threaten. Trade.”

The idea left a bad taste in her mouth.

But it made sense.

“You’re playing chess with someone who only plays to win,” Tamsin added. “Don’t show up without a strategy.”

~ ~ ~

She didn’t call Axel.

She walked into his office.

Or tried to.

Security stopped her in the lobby, radioing upstairs while trying not to look too curious. Stacy stood firm, arms crossed, sunglasses on, heart slamming against her ribs.

Eventually, a woman in a crisp navy suit appeared.

“Ms. Lang?”

Stacy nodded.

“This way.”

The elevator ride was long. Too quiet. When the doors opened, it was like stepping into another world … all glass and light and hushed power.

Axel was standing by the window. Jacket off. Shirt sleeves rolled. He turned when she entered, expression unreadable.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

“I didn’t come for permission.”

He motioned to the chair across from his desk. “Then sit.”

She didn’t.

“I want something from you,” she said.

“I figured.”

“I want space. I want my name out of this. And I want control over whatever gets said about me next.”

Axel didn’t blink. “And what do I get?”

Stacy met his gaze. “A clean story. One that makes you look responsible. Noble, even. Like you’re protecting the innocent civilian caught in the media crossfire.”

He smiled faintly. “You’re not as soft as you look.”

“You’re not as cold as you act.”

That flicker again. The one he never let anyone see in public.

“You really think one article’s going to fix this?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “But it’s a start. And it buys me time to decide what kind of mess I’m willing to live with.”

Axel walked to the desk, pulled open a drawer, and set down a single key card.

“Temporary apartment. Midtown. Discreet.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“I told you I’d handle it,” he said.

She picked up the card. “This isn’t about protecting me. It’s about managing fallout.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But you’ll still sleep better there than here.”

~ ~ ~

That night, Stacy stood in the doorway of the apartment he’d given her access to … all sleek lines and soft lighting and silence that didn’t feel threatening. There were no cameras outside. No knocks at the window. No Lily on the couch beside her.

Just her. Alone. In the middle of something she didn’t ask for, holding a key that felt heavier than it looked.

She set her bag down.

Then she walked to the window and opened it.

The city was still there … pulsing, hungry, watching.

But this time, she didn’t flinch.