Page 177 of Top Shelf

I look at her, then Zoe and Carina. At the studio I built, beautiful and ready, and suddenly vibrating with someone else’s narrative.

“Tomorrow,” I say. “Keep posting as planned and use the athlete clips. Use mine if there’s anything usable. Don’t let the whole feed become Viktor.”

Zoe nods. “We won’t.”

“I know.” My voice shakes on the edge. “I know you won’t.”

By the time I get home, the apartment is quiet, and Viktor is there. He stands from the couch the second I come in, phone in his hand, expression already tight with concern. He’s been calling. I know because my phone has his name stacked across the screen in missed notifications that I’ve been ignoring since my interview.

“Heidi.”

I close the door behind me and look at him. The man I love. The man who washed my hair in a cottage in Sweden and who tattooed my flower into his skin. The man who looked at me beneath a summer sky and said he did not want to look anywhere else.

The same man whose name swallowed mine before I ever got to speak.

“You did an interview,” I say.

His face changes. “Yes.”

“And you talked about the studio.”

“I tried to tell you.”

“I was getting ready for my own interview.”

“I know.” He steps toward me, then stops when I don’t move. “I wanted to tell you before it aired.”

“Before it aired?”

He swallows. “I should have told you before I did it.”

“Yes. You should have.”

Viktor’s jaw works. “I thought it would help after what the sponsors were saying.”

“I know you did.”

“I spoke about your work, Heidi. I said you built it.”

“You also said we.” He stills, and I laugh once, but there is no humor in it. “You said we saw the need and you’re proud to help make it happen.”

“I am proud.”

“I know you were trying to help.” My voice cracks, and I hate it. “God, Viktor, that’s what makes this worse. I know exactly why you did it, that’s part of why this hurts.”

His face tightens, and I keep going.

“I’m angry at every person who heard your name today and immediately decided it mattered more than mine. I’m angry that I sat in my own studio with my fucking doctorate on the wall and my programming and years of clinical work around me, and suddenly the interesting story was who I married.”

“Heidi—”

“But you gave them the door.” I swallow. “You opened it before you told me you were going to.”

He swallows, eyes on mine. “I thought I was helping.”

“I know.”

“I wanted them to see what you built.”