Chapter 82

Chapter 82
[Rose's POV]

The production assistant led me through Sullivan Tower's executive corridors. My muscles still ached from the devil training I'd put the team through.

Then I heard it—voices, multiple voices, coming from behind the chairman's door.

"No, you illiterate troll, that's not how you spell 'exceptional'!" James's voice carried through the mahogany. "E-X-C-E-P—damn these tiny keys!"

I stopped. The assistant knocked once and pushed the door open.

The scene inside made me forget my exhaustion entirely.

James sat behind his desk wearing reading glasses I'd never seen before, hunched over not one but five smartphones arranged in a semicircle. Each screen glowed with Twitter and Instagram feeds, all displaying comments about tonight's performance. His fingers jabbed at the keyboards with the coordination of a man defusing bombs.

"Young lady Rose possesses exceptional qualities!" he muttered, reading his own comment aloud as he typed. His index finger hit the wrong key. "Possess—no, wait. Damn autocorrect!"

I stepped inside. Christopher stood near the window with his arms crossed, watching his grandfather with an expression somewhere between concern and disbelief. On the leather sofa, Lily sat cross-legged with her pink iPad, and Alexander lounged beside her eating cold pizza.

"Grandpa," Alexander said through a mouthful of pepperoni, "you know you can just hire people to do this, right?"

"Hired help lacks authenticity!" James deleted another typo. "These degenerates need to know a Sullivan defends his own!"

On the center screen, a new comment appeared: "Grandpa learn to type lmaooo"

James's face flushed. "I'll show them learning!" His fingers attacked the keyboard with renewed vigor, producing: "Yiung peiple today lack respect for—" He stopped, squinted at the screen, then slammed his palm on the desk. "How do I delete this?!"

"Let me—" Christopher moved forward.

"I can manage!" James waved him off, accidentally hitting the post button. The mangled sentence appeared beneath his name, followed immediately by three laughing emojis from other users.

I bit my lip to keep from smiling.

"This is painful to watch," Alexander said. He set down his pizza and stood. "Seriously, we need to hire a social media management company. Twenty guys with bots can flood these comment sections in an hour. That's how it's done."

James looked up, his reading glasses sliding down his nose. "Bots? Like robots?"

"Digital mercenaries," Alexander explained. "They get paid to post positive comments and bury the negative ones. Standard practice."

"Grandpa," Lily's voice piped up. She didn't look up from her iPad. "You're what they call 'organic'—that means real person posting. But the paid ones? They're just trolls for hire. Fake accounts that flood comment sections."

Christopher finally spoke. "We could retain a firm for fifty thousand. They'd handle all platforms, monitor sentiment, coordinate positive messaging—"

"Fifty thousand?" Alexander's eyes lit up. He turned to James with practiced earnestness. "That's lowballing it. For comprehensive coverage across Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, Facebook, and YouTube, we're looking at five hundred thousand minimum. Maybe more if we want influencer coordination."

I watched Christopher's jaw tighten. The brothers made eye contact, and something unspoken passed between them—some private language of calculated exaggeration and mutual profit.

James removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Five hundred thousand to defend my mother's honor?" He didn't hesitate. "Done. Whatever it takes." He pointed at Christopher. "Set it up. I want those vultures silenced by morning."

Christopher nodded slowly. "I'll contact the usual agencies."

"Make it six hundred thousand," Alexander added quickly. "We should have contingency budget for rapid response scenarios."

"Whatever you need!" James returned to his phones, squinting at another comment thread. "These cretins are saying she can't sing! Have they no ears?!"

That's when I'd had enough.

I walked directly behind James's chair and brought my hand down on the back of his head—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to get his attention.

"James Sullivan!" My voice cut through the chaos. "It's past midnight. You should be resting, not fighting internet wars!"

He froze, phones still in hand, looking like a child caught sneaking cookies. "But they're saying terrible things about you..."

My anger dissolved. I moved around to face him, placing both hands on the desk. "I appreciate what you're trying to do. But your health comes first. Always."

"They called you talentless." His voice dropped to something wounded and confused. "They said you didn't deserve to advance. I couldn't just—"

"Yes, you could." I kept my tone firm but gentle. "You could trust that I'm strong enough to handle criticism. You could trust that quality eventually speaks for itself." I gestured at the phones. "What you're doing here—this isn't defending me. It's exhausting yourself."

James set down the phones with reluctance. "I can't stand by while they attack you."

"Then stand by me differently." I straightened. "Be healthy. Be present. That's what I need from you, not late-night typing crusades."

Lily scrambled off the sofa and ran toward us, her iPad clutched to her chest. "Auntie Rose! Auntie Rose, you have to see this!"

She thrust the screen in my direction. I caught a glimpse of Instagram analytics—numbers, graphs, follower counts.

"Your fan club exploded!" Lily bounced on her toes. "Look—you went from twelve followers to one thousand two hundred and forty-seven! In three hours!"

I stared at the numbers. The account I'd created almost as an afterthought, posting nothing but a profile picture and my audition registration, had somehow become relevant.

James's entire demeanor transformed. The wounded defender vanished, replaced by a man who'd just heard the best possible news. "One thousand two hundred and forty-seven!" He shot to his feet with an energy that made me nervous for his blood pressure. "This calls for a celebration!"

"Grandpa—" Christopher started.

"Neptune Oyster Bar!" James was already grabbing his coat from the rack behind his desk. "Fresh oysters at midnight! Lily, you'll love the clam chowder. Alexander, they have that fried calamari you inhaled last time."

Alexander grinned. "I'm always down for a midnight seafood run."

"It's very late," Christopher said, his CEO voice activating. "Tomorrow's a full schedule—"

James turned to me, ignoring his grandson entirely. "Rose? Would you join me? I know it's unconventional, but..." He hesitated, suddenly uncertain. "I'd like to celebrate your success properly."

I looked at his hopeful expression, at Lily's excited bouncing, at Alexander already heading for the door. Christopher stood alone near the window, outnumbered and outmaneuvered.

"Fresh air sounds perfect," I said. "And I could definitely eat an oyster."

James beamed. "Excellent! Christopher, bring the car around."

Ten minutes later, we were loaded into Christopher's Mercedes—him driving with James in the passenger seat, me squeezed between Alexander and Lily in the back. The city slid past in streaks of streetlight and shadow as we headed toward the waterfront.

"This is awesome," Alexander said, scrolling through his phone. "Your numbers are still climbing. Twelve hundred sixty-three now."

Lily leaned across me to see his screen. "Do you think she'll hit two thousand by morning?"

"Easily." Alexander showed me a thread of comments. "People are calling your performance 'authentic' and 'raw.' That's code for 'she made me feel something,' which is basically the whole point."

I watched Boston's late-night landscape transform from business district to harbor. The transition felt symbolic somehow—leaving behind corporate towers for something older, more elemental. Water and salt air and survival.

Christopher's voice broke my reflection. "The reservation's confirmed. Manager's holding the upstairs terrace for us."

"Perfect." James twisted in his seat to look back at me. "Rose, have you tried New England oysters? Wellfleets are in season—they have this clean, briny finish that's incomparable."

"I haven't," I admitted. The truth was I'd eaten oysters exactly twice in my previous life, both times at formal military dinners.

"Then you're in for an experience," James said with satisfaction.

We pulled up outside a narrow brick building squeezed between two larger structures on the harbor front. A small sign read "Neptune Oyster Bar" in weathered letters. Through the windows I could see nautical décor—ship wheels, old photographs, fishing nets draped artfully across exposed brick.

Inside, a hostess in a navy striped shirt greeted James by name and led us up a narrow staircase to a second-floor terrace. The space opened onto a view of Boston Harbor, dark water reflecting scattered lights from boats and distant buildings.

"Best seats in the house," the hostess said, gesturing to a table near the railing.

We settled in—James and I facing the harbor, Christopher and Alexander on the opposite side, Lily claiming the head of the table where she could see everything. A waiter appeared within seconds, handing out menus and reciting specials I barely processed.

James ordered without consultation. "Dozen Wellfleets to start. Two lobster rolls. Fried calamari. That clam chowder Lily likes. And a bottle of the Sancerre."

"Just water for me," I said when the waiter looked my way.

"Noted." He vanished back inside.

The night air carried salt and something else—seaweed maybe, or just the general smell of ocean meeting city. Lily kicked her feet under the table, humming something tuneless but content. Alexander had his phone out again, probably checking my follower count.

Christopher sat with his napkin folded in his lap and his phone face-down on the table, looking like a man trying very hard to be present despite wanting to be anywhere else.

"You should relax," I told him.

He glanced up. "I'm relaxed."

"You look like you're about to attend a board meeting."

"This is my relaxed face."

Alexander snorted. "Dude, you need to work on that."

The oysters arrived on a bed of ice, arranged in a perfect circle with lemon wedges and cocktail sauce in the center. James immediately grabbed one, squeezed lemon over it, and tilted it back. He closed his eyes as he swallowed, making a satisfied sound.

"Try one," he urged me.

I picked up a shell carefully, mimicking his technique with the lemon. The oyster slid down cold and briny with a mineral finish that tasted exactly like the ocean smelled. It was good. Strange, but good.

"Well?" James watched me intently.

"Interesting texture," I said honestly.

He laughed. "That's the polite way of saying 'weird but I'll eat another one.'"

Lily poked at her clam chowder with a spoon, taking tiny sips and making faces when the chunks of potato were too big. Alexander was already three calamari rings deep, eating like someone who'd forgotten about dinner entirely.

Christopher checked his phone.

"Work can wait," James said without looking at him.

"I'm just—"

"It can wait."

Christopher set the phone down with forced casualness. His jaw flexed the way it did when he was biting back an argument.

I reached for another oyster. The celebration felt good in a simple way—no agenda beyond the food and the night air and the fact that something had gone right. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new battles, new decisions. Tonight could just be oysters and harbor views.

Then Lily stopped eating.

"That's Miss Lauren," she said, pointing toward the waterfront.

Every head at the table turned.

Below us, maybe fifty feet away, a wooden boardwalk stretched along the harbor. Street lamps created pools of light against the dark water beyond. And standing in one of those pools, wearing a white dress I recognized from previous dinner parties, was Lauren.

She wasn't alone.

A man stood beside her—tall, athletic build, wearing casual clothes that looked expensive even from this distance. His hand rested lightly on the small of Lauren's back as they walked. And between them, holding both their hands, was Madison in a pink dress and white cardigan.

I watched as the man crouched down to Madison's level, pulling a tissue from his pocket to wipe something from her cheek. Cotton candy, maybe, or ice cream. Madison giggled at whatever he said, and the sound carried up to our terrace on the night breeze.

They looked like a family. A complete family. Father, mother, daughter.

Alexander set down his calamari slowly. "Is that Lauren?"

"Yes," James said, his voice flat.

"And who's the guy?"

Nobody answered.

Christopher's face had gone completely blank—that particular kind of blank that meant his brain was working overtime to process something it didn't want to accept. His hand had moved to his phone, fingers closing around it without lifting it from the table.

"Maybe it's a business associate," he said. The words came out too carefully measured. "Lauren has her own social life. She's allowed to—"

"At one in the morning?" Alexander cut him off. "On the waterfront? With Madison?"

"Family friend, then." Christopher's grip on the phone tightened. "Someone from her past. There's no reason to assume—"

"Daddy!"

Madison's voice cut through whatever rationalization Christopher was building. Clear as a bell, pitched high with childish excitement, it carried across the distance between the boardwalk and our terrace.

"Daddy, Daddy, can we go see the boats?"

The little girl released Lauren's hand and wrapped both arms around the man's leg, tilting her head back to look up at him with an expression of pure adoration. He laughed and scooped her up, settling her against his hip with the ease of someone who'd done it a thousand times.

Our table had gone completely silent.