Christina—orwas it Krystal?—grins. “I just didn’t want to miss you before you left. I was hoping to get a little more, uh, footage.”
Josephine and I exchange confused glances.
“No, not with Azalea and Yvette.” She chuckles. “More behind-the-scenes optics to promote the gala. The two of you meeting mothers, shaking hands, extending personal invites while touring the station…”
My gaze drifts to the small group of women gathered at the far end of the hallway.
“Oh,wow. Okay, uh…” Another hiccup jolts out of me. “I really should take care of this. I’d love to, but—”
“Shucks, yes.” She slaps a hand over her face, shaking her head. “Mrs. Livingston, I’m so sorry. This must put you in a tough spot with you husband working ‘for the competition.’” She air quotes and shifts to the side, wincing and quietly chastising herself.
I nod.
Honestly, I’m relieved. Between the message waiting on my phone and the nagging feeling that just showing up here is a betrayal to Julian, I’m ready to get the hell out. I almost lean in to the traitor angle, but a man’s voice crackles over her radio.
“Kristalina, we need Nora on set. I’ve got to brief her on Madison Manor. Looks like it’s about to turn into a bidding war.”
She silences the radio, her stare intense. “Y’all have got to meet her before she starts her segment. After you meet the mothers, of course,” Kristalina insists. “If she hasn’t gotten a ticket yet, she’ll want to attend the gala. This will be amazing PR for everyone involved,” she adds, clearly winning Josephine over.
Who in Ellswood wouldn’t want to hobnob with Nora Whitfield, the most famous Luxe Lady turned news anchor? Not only is she drop-dead gorgeous, but the woman is also a verbal gymnast—hence, why she’s everyone’s favorite cast member.
It’s not a tough sell.
I’m about to nod when I catch the red light on the camera aimed directly at me. I freeze.
Is she setting me up?
There is nothing this town—the world—would love more than a front seat to my cracking on live TV. What kind of tactless woman—plus invited guest and event planner—would say no to touring the station and shaking hands with mothers and fans? What kind of “soon-to-be mother,” according to these damn hiccups? Furthermore, who would risk passing up a chance to meetNoraWhitfield?
My blood runs cold.
The way herLuxe Ladiesfandom will fabricate a narrative and cancel me so fast, it would be an immediate fall from grace. They’ve done it to others before.
I bite the inside of my cheek, weighing my options for getting out of this without confessing that I hired a PI to track my elusive, location-less husband and I need to check in with him, stat.
Flipping my wrist, I see it’s already a little after nine thirty. “I really do need to get going.”
“It’ll only take a few minutes,” Kristalina insists.
Tension tightens my throat as I glance at the green room door, my mind fixated on the message waiting on my phone. It sucks to wait even one more second to uncover the truth about Julian, but I force a smile to mirror Kristalina’s. “Sounds lovely.”
Despite my initial reservations, the first stop on the tour isn’t bad. The moms gathered at the end of the hallway are all kind and sweet, offering hugs, flowers, and gifts to Josephine and me. They’re amazing, asking questions about the gala and donating. We stand to the side, quietly soaking it all in while KTLE’s staff—who are practically glowing, possibly from meeting “the competition’s” wife—scramble to find Nora Whitfield, who’s notably absent from her dressing room.
As the scene plays out around me, I think of soothing water signs, and my body begins to relax. The tension drains from my muscles, my shoulders easing down from their uptight set. Even my diaphragm, which has been holding on to that weird, staccato rhythm of a potential hiccup fit, lets go. The rhythm breaks, the silence stretches, and a small sense of relief loosens the tension in my chest. The moment of uncertainty, the pressure to perform, fades away.
Kristalina snaps her fingers. “I’ve got it!”
Josephine and I share a quick laugh, already in sync after years of navigating these types of things. We’ve learned not to ask questions, just to follow Kristalina’s lead. She guides us around the corner and down a quieter hall to a door labeled simply,Guest suite.
The door looks like it hasn’t seen much action lately—scuff marks line the wood, and there’s a faded nameplate that’s been there so long it’s lost its sheen. It’s tucked away, almost as if it’s forgotten. This room doesn’t see much traffic.
“She comes in here sometimes to clear her head before going on,” Kristalina explains, her fingers lightly grazing the door handle. She glances at the cameraman, signaling for him to get ready, then turns to us with a smile. “All right, ladies…”
It’s all very much a showbiz countdown before she drags in a deep breath and fans the door open, and my stomach drops.
My jaw drops. “Julian—”
“Nora?” Kristalina inhales, sharply.
