Page 21 of Devotion
The wine helped. Barely.
“So,” he said, his tone shifting to something purposeful. “About the interview.”
I set down my glass, meeting his gaze.
“There’s a reporter running a story,” he continued. “The coverage has been damaging.”
He explained. A certain reporter had been pushing a narrative that painted Christopher as a reckless celebrity who'd ruined an innocent woman's life. The story had turned me into a victim and him into a villain, which was bad for his public image at a time when it mattered more than usual. He didn't explain why. He just said it did.
He asked if I’d be willing to sit down with a reporter and tell the truth. Just my honest experience of what happened and how he’d handled it.
His eyes held mine across the table. “As I said, you don’t have to,” he said. “This isn’t a condition.”
“I already agreed, didn't I? I don’t go back on my words,” I said. Then, before I could talk myself out of it, “You said you’d also do anything?”
“I did.”
“Okay, this is going to sound weird. You’re probably gonna think I’m crazy.”
“I’m intrigued.”
“There’s this quote. Something you said in an interview years ago. You were young, and you probably don’t even remember saying it…Could you write it down for me? In your handwriting?” I said, realizing I did sound crazy. “Forget it. Forget I said anything. That was stupid. Let’s go back to the compensation talk?—”
“Miley.”
I stopped.
“It’s fine.” He tilted his head. “Tell me the quote.”
I gulped and looked at him. “You don’t have to earn the right to exist. You just do.”
Christopher went still. He looked at me like I’d said something in a language he thought only he spoke. His lips parted, and he stared at me for what felt like forever.
“Where did you hear that?” His voice came out stripped back, nothing like before.
“An interview. Late night.” I swallowed. “It stuck with me.”
He held my gaze for another second. Then he looked away, toward the dining room entrance, and signaled to a staff member. He asked for a pen and paper. The man came back with a sheet of cream stock and a pen.
Christopher picked it up and started writing. I watched his hand move across the paper.
He slid the paper across the table.
His handwriting was bold and slightly slanted and he’d written it exactly right.
You don’t have to earn the right to exist. You just do.
I picked it up. My fingers were shaking, which I hated, because I didn’t want to be the girl who cried in front of Christopher Vale twice.
“Thank you,” I said. It came out breathy.
“You’re welcome,” he said quietly.
I folded the paper along the center, and slid it into my bag where it pressed against my hip like a second pulse.
The interview happened three days later.
The reporter was a woman named Claire Devereaux from one of the major entertainment networks. She’d been running pieces about the incident for two weeks, each one more sympathetic to me and more damaging to Christopher, and the narrative she’d built was compelling: powerful celebrity ruins hardworking small-business owner and walks away without consequences.
