Page 67 of Better than Famous

Mom moved through the room with a silver coffee pot, topping off mugs with her usual quiet grace. Helen Coleridge’s presence always anchored the room. She offered me a warm, knowing smile as she filled my cup, silently communicating support. The sectional sofa was packed. Braden sat with his arm around Tessa. Austin leaned against the back of the sofa with a hand on Iris’s shoulder. Brenna and Hunter occupied the loveseat, projecting a united, formidable front.

Eli occupied a leather armchair near the window. He held a tiny, swaddled bundle against his chest. Jules sat on the arm of the chair, while their newborn daughter, Alana, was asleep and completely oblivious to the tension radiating through the room.

I sat on the edge of the coffee table, my hands clasped tightly together between my knees. The flat-screen television mounted above the fireplace displayed the smiling anchors of A.M. America.

"Two minutes," Chase announced, checking his watch from his position near the kitchen island. His architect eyes immediately shifted to Finn’s leaning tower of LEGO, like he was itching to shore it up.

My heart executed a relentless, heavy rhythm against my ribs. The anticipation was agonizing. I had no idea what narrative Sutton was going to spin. When the broadcast returned from a commercial break, the room around me went dead silent. Even Finn paused his construction to look up at the screen.

The camera cut to a studio set in New York.

Sutton sat on a leather bench in front of a sleek, black grand piano. She wore a sharp, tailored white suit with a plunging neckline. Her blonde hair was pulled back tight, and her lips were painted a fierce, unapologetic red. Heat pooled inside me at the matching red high heels she wore. She looked lethal. She looked like armor personified.

"Sutton," the interviewer, David Lipton, began, leaning forward with a look of grave concern. "Thank you for being here. Your ex-husband, Nash Calloway, has made some very serious allegations regarding your mental health. He even claims you were held against your will in the Florida Keys."

Sutton didn’t flinch. She waited a beat, letting the question hang in the studio air, before leaning toward her microphone.

"Nash Calloway," Sutton stated, her voice cool and steady, "is a producer. He tells stories for a living. Right now, he is trying to produce the narrative of my life because he realizes he’s lost control of the asset."

"He produced a photo," David countered, pulling up a graphic on his tablet. "A photo that has circulated globally. It shows the man you were staying with."

The screen split. My mugshot appeared next to the live feed of Sutton.

A collective breath caught and held in the living room. Austin cursed under his breath. I locked my jaw, forcing myself to stare at the bruised, angry face of who I used to be. The shame burned hot and bright.

"Benjamin Coleridge," David continued, reading from his notes. "A firefighter with a documented history of assault, including hospitalized victims. Did you know about his record when you went to his home?"

I braced for impact. The pivot to the victim narrative was the logical play.

Sutton swiveled on the piano bench. She didn’t look at the host. She stared directly at the monitor displaying my mugshot. She studied the photo for a long second, her expression completely devoid of fear or disgust. She turned to the camera, her eyes blazing.

"I know everything about him," Sutton declared, her voice ringing with enough authority to silence the studio. "I know that over ten years ago, he got into a fight defending his family. I know he paid his debt. I know he has spent every day since then saving lives to make up for the few times he hurt someone."

The silence in the living room was profound. I forgot how to breathe.

Sutton leaned forward. "Let’s be very clear about who saved whom. That man pulled me out of a sinking car in the middle of a torrential rainstorm. He gave me a safe place to sleep when I had nowhere else to go. He stood between me and the world when I was at my most vulnerable. He treated me with more dignity, respect, and kindness in a single week than this industry has shown me in ten years."

Mom put her coffee cup down on the table and pressed her hands between her knees, biting her lip.

"Ben isn’t a monster," Sutton said to the camera, her voice trembling slightly with suppressed emotion. "He is a protector. He’s the most decent man I have ever met. And the only reason I left that island... the only reason I am sitting here right now... is because he was selfless enough to break his own heart to save my reputation."

She paused, taking a deep, shuddering breath. "I didn’t run away from him. I ran away because I let him down. I let him believe his past was too heavy for me to carry. But I was wrong. And I’ve spent the last couple of days doing what I was born to do. I wrote a song, and I’d like to debut it now."

Sutton placed her hands on the polished keys. "It’s called “The Frame.” This is for him."

When she began the song, I didn’t recognize it. The introductory notes were slow and richly composed, her fingers effortlessly moving over the keyboard. Sutton Vale leaned into the microphone and sang.

“You stand in the shadows so the light can hit my face,

You hold up the walls of this fragile place,

They call you the frame, just wood and stone,

But without you, baby, I’m just alone.”

Her voice was aching, filled with deep power and richness. The voice of a superstar.

Her lyrics hit me right in the gut. She had taken my deepest insecurity—the belief that I was just the background structure, the invisible support system—and turned it into a massive, public love letter. She was broadcasting my value to millions of people.