Read Chapter 22: The Interview

The greenroom smelled of stale coffee and nervous sweat. Evelyn sat perfectly still in the makeup chair, watching her reflection in the ring of naked bulbs, while a stylist with cold fingers patted powder across her forehead. On the monitor in the corner, the BBC logo pulsed against a deep blue backdrop, counting down to her slot.

Fiona hovered by the door, phone in hand, typing furiously. "They're teasing the interview in the break bumpers. 'Evelyn Hart breaks her silence.' The phones haven't stopped."

"Good," Evelyn said. Her voice came out steadier than she felt.

"Good? Evelyn, you're about to tell forty million people that you lied to them, that you covered up a threat for months, that—"

"That I was scared." Evelyn met Fiona's eyes in the mirror. "That's the truth. And I'm done being scared."

The studio runner knocked once and poked his head in. "Two minutes, Miss Hart."

Evelyn stood. The silk blouse felt too thin, the studio lights too bright, the whole world too exposed. But she'd made her choice. She smoothed the fabric over her ribs and walked toward the door, then paused.

"Marcus?"

He stood against the far wall, arms crossed, a shadow in a charcoal suit. He'd insisted on driving her himself, on sweeping the studio lot, on standing outside the greenroom door for the hour it took to do her hair and makeup. He'd barely spoken. She understood. This was her fight.

"Stay close," she said. "Just in case I forget what the truth feels like."

The corner of his mouth lifted. "You won't forget."

The interview chair was deeper than it looked, built to swallow you whole. Evelyn sat across from Julia Marsh, a veteran broadcaster with silver hair and a face that had interviewed prime ministers and pop stars with equal calm. The camera light blinked red.

Julia's opening was exactly as rehearsed: "Evelyn Hart, thank you for being here today. It's been a difficult few months for you."

Evelyn nodded, both to Julia and to the decision she'd already made. "It has. And I think it's time I told everyone exactly what happened, without the filters and without the spin."

"Your publicist initially released a statement suggesting a lone fan had become fixated on you. That wasn't the full story, was it?"

"No." Evelyn let the word hang. "It wasn't. The man arrested last week, Oliver Thorne, wasn't a fan. He was my castmate. Someone I rehearsed with daily, shared scenes with, trusted in professional settings. And the stalking wasn't a few letters. It was years of escalating surveillance, break-ins, threats that followed me from production to production."

Julia leaned forward slightly. "And you knew the public statement wasn't true?"

Evelyn's throat tightened. She'd expected this question, but the weight of it pressed down on her chest anyway. "Yes. I knew. And I made the choice to hide the truth because I was terrified. Not just of him—though I was, deeply—but of what the truth would do to my career. I've spent my entire adult life building a reputation. The idea of being seen as fragile, as damaged, as a victim…" She paused. "It felt safer to disappear into a simpler story."

"Did your protection team know about the lie?"

The question was a trap, a soft invitation to point fingers. Evelyn shook her head. "My bodyguard didn't know. He was brought in to protect me, and I repaid that trust by hiding critical information from him. That was wrong. He'll never see this interview, or if he does, I hope he knows how sorry I am."

She felt Marcus's presence somewhere behind the cameras, a silent anchor. She hadn't rehearsed that apology, but it came out raw and true.

Julia's tone softened. "You've spoken tonight about fear. But you've also spoken about the grind of returning to work, of pretending to be fine. How are you really doing?"

Evelyn inhaled. This was the part she'd practiced until her voice went hoarse in hotel bathrooms. "I've struggled with anxiety since I was a teenager. For years I managed it privately, which for an actress means going to work and pretending to be someone else until the panic passes. The last few months stripped away every coping mechanism I had. I stopped sleeping. I stopped eating properly. I started seeing threats in every crowd, every parked car, every soft knock on my door."

She looked directly into the camera. "That's the part of this story that frightens me the most. Not the stalker—though he was terrifying. It's that I know I will always be visible. I will always be a target for someone's obsession or someone's resentment. And I have to decide, every day, whether that cost is worth the work I love."

"Do you have an answer yet?"

Evelyn smiled, a real one, small and bruised. "I'm working on it. Tonight is part of the work."

Julia asked three more questions—about Marcus, about the gallery, about whether Evelyn would return to the stage. Each answer came easier than the last. The clock in the corner ticked. The red light blinked off.

"That's all we have time for," Julia said, turning to the camera. "Evelyn Hart, thank you for your honesty."

Evelyn stood on legs that felt like water. The studio lights dimmed, the production team swarmed, and Fiona was suddenly there, eyes wet, hugging her before Evelyn could brace.

"That was brave," Fiona whispered. "That was so goddamn brave."

But Evelyn was looking past her, toward the shadows where Marcus had been. He wasn't there anymore. The space where he'd stood was empty, and the small absence twisted in her chest.

She found him in the corridor, just outside the studio doors, scrolling through his phone with a tight jaw. His head snapped up as she approached.

"Malcolm at the Met." He pocketed the phone. "They're monitoring social media in real time. No physical threats flagged yet, but they're tracking a few accounts that spiked during your segment."

"Yet." Evelyn wrapped her arms around herself. The adrenaline was draining now, leaving an ache behind her eyes. "That's a fun word."

Marcus's gaze swept the corridor, cataloguing exits, corners, reflections. His body was still in protection mode, even now, even here, even when the danger had been handcuffed and carted away.

"Hey." Evelyn reached out and touched his wrist. It was the first time she'd initiated contact, and the small gesture seemed to pull him back from somewhere far away. "Marcus. I'm fine. It's over."

"It's not over." His voice was quiet, almost gentle. "It's never going to be over. That's what I've been trying to tell you. There's always going to be another letter, another threat, another face in the crowd that triggers you. I need you to understand that before—"

"Before what?"

He stopped. Something flickered in his eyes—not fear, exactly, but the shadow of it. "Before this gets any harder."

Evelyn studied him. The dark circles under his eyes were deeper than she'd noticed before. The sharp line of his jaw, the controlled stillness of his hands. He'd carried her fear for weeks, absorbed it, filtered it into something workable. And it was costing him.

"You watched the interview," she said. "You heard what I said about not being fragile."

"I heard you."

"I meant it." She stepped closer. "I'm not going to hide from you, Marcus. Not my fear, not my lies, not any of the messy parts. If you're going to stay—and I want you to stay—then I need to know that you'll stop pretending you're just doing a job."

He was very still. For a long moment, she thought she'd pushed too hard, asked too much. Then he reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his calloused fingers grazing her cheek.

"I stopped pretending a long time ago," he said. "The problem is, I don't know what comes after pretending."

Before she could answer, his phone buzzed again. He glanced at it, and his face went hard.

"What is it?" Evelyn asked.

"Malcolm. He needs to see us. Tonight." Marcus's jaw tightened. "He says it's about the case."

Evelyn's stomach dropped. "Oliver's in custody. The case is closed."

"No." Marcus pocketed the phone and met her gaze with something that looked dangerously close to worry. "It isn't."