[Sophie’s POV]

The launch is already loud when I arrive.

Not loud in a celebratory way, but loud in that brittle industry sense where voices carry just enough polish to pretend this is about literature and not power. Glasses clink. Someone laughs too hard near the bar. A publicist is already sweating through her blazer. Vaughn’s name is everywhere—on the step-and-repeat, on the programs, whispered like currency between editors who pretended not to hear rumors until it suited them.

I spot her immediately.

Lisette Vaughn stands near the center of the room, wine glass balanced perfectly in her hand, posture relaxed in a way that reads practiced rather than natural. She is wearing something understated and intentional, the kind of dress that says she understands optics better than most people understand themselves. She looks unbothered. She looks pleased.

She looks like someone who believes she has already won.

Cassian’s hand brushes the small of my back instinctively before he catches himself. Adrian is on my other side, jaw tight, body coiled like he’s deciding whether to burn the room down or let it collapse on its own. I feel them both behind me, present and restrained, exactly the way I asked them to be. That does not make this easier.

“Are you sure about this?” Cassian murmurs, keeping his voice low, controlled, legal-brain already running ahead.

“Yes,” I say without turning. “I need to do this myself.”

Adrian exhales through his nose. “You don’t owe her your composure.”

“I’m not giving it to her,” I reply quietly. “I’m using it.”

I step away from them before either of them can argue again. If I hesitate, I will lose my nerve. If I look back, I will feel held instead of resolved, and I need resolve more than comfort tonight.

Lisette sees me coming.

Her smile adjusts instantly, widening just enough to look gracious. She lifts her glass slightly, like we’re old acquaintances who simply happen to orbit the same professional universe.

“Sophie,” she says warmly. “I was hoping you’d come.”

“I’m sure you were,” I reply, stopping in front of her, keeping my posture open, neutral, unthreatening. Everything she expects. Everything she underestimates.

She gestures toward the crowd. “Isn’t it a turnout? People love stories about survival.”

“They love spectacle,” I say. “Especially when it’s dressed as healing.”

Her eyes sharpen, just a fraction. “You sound tired.”

“I am,” I admit. “Of being spoken around.”

That gets her attention.

She sets her glass down on a nearby table with deliberate care. “Is this about the manuscript?”

“It’s about you using my professional space to punish a man you’re still obsessed with,” I say calmly, loud enough that the editor hovering nearby pauses without fully turning. “And about you dragging me into it without my consent.”

Lisette tilts her head, studying me like I’m a passage she’s deciding whether to cut. “You’re assigning intention where there is none,” she replies smoothly. “Memoir draws from experience. If you’re seeing yourself in it, that might be worth examining.”

I smile, because if I don’t, my hands will give me away. “You described his apartment in detail that never appeared in your drafts until after you met me.”

Her lips curve. “Shared archetypes exist.”

“You described his rules,” I say. “His pacing. His language. You described methods that were never public.”

“Power dynamics repeat,” she counters lightly. “Men like that follow patterns.”

“Men like that,” I repeat. “Or Adrian specifically.”

The air between us tightens. Someone across the room laughs, unaware they are laughing into silence.

Lisette’s gaze flicks briefly past me, toward where Adrian stands, tall and restrained and visibly furious. Then she looks back at me, eyes bright.

“You’re very protective,” she says. “That’s understandable. Young women often confuse agency with defense.”

My pulse kicks, but my voice does not waver. “I’m not protecting him. I’m correcting you.”

A publicist inches closer, pretending to adjust a stack of books. A senior editor I recognize by reputation—not kindness—lingers within earshot.

“You suggested to my boss that I’m professionally compromised,” I continued, each word measured. “You implied my personal life disqualifies me from editorial judgment.”

“I raised a concern,” Lisette replies, unbothered. “Ethics matter.”

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify