Hate Me Like You Love Me (Serena and Caleb) novel Chapter 95

Caleb’s POV

William's lead attorney, David Hargrove, sits at the kitchen table with his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose and a stack of printed emails fanned across the surface like a losing hand of poker.

He arrived twenty minutes ago with the kind of expression people wear to funerals they knew were coming.

"The reporter's name is Andrea Choi," he says, tapping one of the printouts. "Investigative beat for the Herald. She's been building this piece for at least two weeks."

"How much does she have?" William stands by the counter with his arms crossed, still in the dress shirt he wore to work.

"Enough to be dangerous." Hargrove flips to a second page. "The party footage that's already circulating. Lucas Bennett's public accusation about the stepsiblings from his arraignment. And sources confirming Simon Thornton's reappearance and the ongoing marital dispute."

The kitchen goes quiet. I lean against the doorframe with my hands shoved in my pockets, watching Serena at the far end of the table.

Her shoulders are drawn tight, her jaw set in the way it gets when she's calculating every possible outcome before anyone else finishes a sentence.

"Our recommendation," Hargrove continues, removing his glasses, "is a firm no comment. Across the board. Let the attorneys redirect everything toward the pending criminal proceedings."

"And if no comment makes us look like we're hiding?" I ask.

"Silence is a legal strategy, Caleb. It protects the family from —"

"Silence is also a confession." I push off the doorframe. "That's how people read it. We say nothing, and every rumor fills the gap for us. The stepsiblings become the headline. Lucas's crimes become a footnote."

"He's right." Serena's voice cuts through the room. Her hazel eyes meet mine with the kind of steadiness that makes my chest tighten.

"If we go silent, the story becomes about us. The focus shifts away from seven women who deserve to be heard."

William looks between us. "What if they don't confirm anything, but they also don't run? Is there a middle ground?"

Hargrove hesitates. "Any engagement with the press opens doors that are difficult to close."

"We're not engaging," I say, sitting down beside Serena. "We're just not hiding. If someone asks about us, we don't confirm and we don't deny. We redirect every conversation to what matters — Lucas Bennett assaulted seven women and his father's firm covered it up."

Serena nods. "The story isn't about our family. The story is about a predator and the institution that protected him."

William studies us both. Catherine's hand finds his arm, carrying the quiet solidarity of two people who have weathered worse than a headline.

"David," William says. "Draft a statement along those lines. Factual. Focused entirely on the proceedings against Lucas Bennett."

Hargrove gathers his papers and leaves with a handshake and a briefcase full of every secret we've been carrying.

***

Shane's garage smells exactly the way it always has — motor oil, burnt rubber, and the metallic tang of tools that have seen more honest work than most people do in a lifetime.

I find him bent over a disassembled carburetor, his broad shoulders hunched beneath a grease-stained undershirt.

He looks up when my shadow crosses his workbench, and his eyebrows rise just enough to register surprise.

"Didn't expect to see you again," he says, straightening to his full height. He wipes his hands on a rag that's already more oil than fabric. "Thought we had our goodbye."

"We did." I lean against the doorframe. "I'm not here about racing."

Shane studies me with those sharp eyes that used to read my body language before a race and know whether I was focused enough to ride. He pulls up a metal stool, sits, and waits.

"There's a reporter writing about my family," I say. "About Lucas Bennett. About my father showing back up. About me and Serena."

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