Chapter 141

Chapter 141
Ayleen’s POV

I dropped my bag on the couch and slid into my chair, already reaching for the console like muscle memory could keep everything steady.

George was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching a playback from the night before. Mia sat on the edge of the desk, phone in hand, scrolling with the same expression she wore when she was about to ruin my peace.

“I swear,” I said without looking at her, “if you’re about to show me another think piece dissecting my facial expressions.."

“It’s not that,” Mia interrupted. “It’s an email.”

That made me glance up.

George muted the speakers. “From who?”

Mia turned the phone around so we could both see the logo at the top. A very recognizable one. One of those talk shows that pretended to be casual but had the reach to set narratives on fire.

“They want an interview,” she said. “You and Clara. Together.”

My stomach dropped instantly.

“No,” I said, too fast.

George raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t even hear the details.”

“I don’t need to,” I replied, pushing back in my chair. “Absolutely not.”

Mia sighed. “Ayleen—”

“I said no,” I repeated, sharper this time. “I didn’t make last night public so people could put Clara under a microscope.”

George uncrossed his arms slowly. “They already are.”

I shot him a look. “That’s exactly why we shouldn’t do this.”

Mia leaned forward. “They’re framing it as a conversation. About the album. About love. About—”

“About spectacle,” I cut in. “About clicks. About dissecting her life like it’s fair game.”

George shook his head. “Or about taking control of the narrative.”

I stood, pacing now. “Clara didn’t ask for this. She didn’t sign up to be interrogated on national television because she fell in love with me.”

“She also didn’t ask for people to decide who she is based on anonymous threads and half-truths,” George said evenly.

I stopped pacing.

“That’s different,” I muttered.

“How?” he asked.

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Because the truth sat uncomfortably in my chest.
I hated the idea of Clara sitting under studio lights, being asked questions she didn’t owe anyone answers to. I hated the thought of her being reduced to a headline, or worse, turned into a prop in my story instead of the woman she actually was.

“I wanted to show the world I love her,” I said finally, quieter now. “Not parade her around to prove something.”

Mia softened. “No one’s saying parade.”

“But that’s what it becomes,” I insisted. “They won’t ask her about her work. Not really. They’ll ask about us. About rumors. About things she’s spent years surviving.”

George leaned forward. “Or… they’ll finally let her speak for herself.”

I looked at him.

“She’s been silent long enough,” he continued. “People are filling that silence with whatever suits them. An interview like this—done right—could show who Clara actually is. Not the caricature people are trying to paint.”

My chest tightened.

“And if it hurts her?” I asked.

George didn’t hesitate. “Then we walk.”

Mia nodded. “We set boundaries. Topics. Questions. No ambushes. No speculation.”

I dragged a hand through my hair, frustration buzzing under my skin. I hated that they weren’t wrong. I hated even more that the idea of Clara being exposed like that made something protective and feral rise in me.

“She already carries enough,” I said. “I won’t be the reason it gets heavier.”

Mia watched me carefully. “Have you asked her what she wants?”

That stopped me cold.

I hadn’t.

George sighed softly. “This isn’t about the show, Ayleen. It’s about trust. You can’t keep shielding her by making decisions for her.”

The words hit closer than I liked.

I sank back into my chair, staring at the console without really seeing it. Clara’s face flashed in my mind—steady, intelligent, tired of being spoken over.

“She deserves a choice,” Mia added gently.

I swallowed.

“Forward me the email,” I said after a long pause.

Mia’s eyes widened slightly. “You’re considering it?”

“I’m considering asking her,” I corrected. “That’s it.”

George nodded, satisfied. “That’s all anyone’s asking.”

As Mia sent the email, I leaned back and closed my eyes for a second, letting the noise of the studio fill the silence.

I loved Clara.

And loving her meant trusting her to decide how visible she wanted to be in a world that never stopped watching.

Clara’s POV

I’d barely made it halfway down the block before I realized how unaccustomed I still was to being seen.
The café was only two streets away from the office, the kind of place I’d gone to for years without thinking twice. Familiar counter. Same barista. Same order. I stood in line scrolling through emails, mind already halfway back in a brief I needed to review, when I felt it—that pause in the air, the subtle awareness of someone watching instead of passing by.

“Um… excuse me?”

I looked up.

The girl standing a few feet away couldn’t have been older than twenty. Maybe younger. She held her phone loosely in her hand, uncertainty written all over her face, like she was bracing for rejection before she’d even finished asking.

“You’re Clara Alcaraz, right?” she said. “From… from the concert?”

My first instinct was to correct her. To deflect. To say something professional and distant.
Instead, I hesitated.

“Yes,” I said carefully. “That’s me.”

Her face lit up instantly, relief flooding her expression. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to be weird. I just—would you mind taking a picture with me?”

For a split second, my body went rigid. Not fear. Just surprise. I’d stood in courtrooms packed with people dissecting my words, but this felt different. More exposed. More personal.

I glanced around instinctively.

“Sure,” I said, softer now. “That’s okay.”

Her smile widened as she stepped closer, lifting her phone. We took the picture quickly—no pose, no fuss. When she checked the screen, she laughed quietly, like she couldn’t believe it had actually happened.

“Thank you,” she said. “Really.”

“You’re welcome,” I replied. I should have turned back to the line then. Should have let the moment end.
But she didn’t move away right away.

“I just wanted to say…” she started, then stopped, clearly unsure. “You look… happy. With her.”

The words landed gently but firmly.

I felt my shoulders relax without meaning to. “I am.”

She nodded like that was exactly what she’d hoped to hear. “Good. I’ve followed her for years. Seeing her like that—it meant something.”

I swallowed, touched by the sincerity in her voice. “It means something to me too.”

She hesitated, then added, “People online can be awful. But… a lot of us are rooting for you.”

I didn’t trust my voice for a second, so I just smiled.

“Thank you,” I said again. This time, I meant more than the picture.

She waved as she stepped aside, disappearing back into the street like nothing monumental had just happened. I stood there for a moment longer than necessary, heart beating a little faster, a little warmer.
By the time I reached the counter to order, my hands weren’t shaking.