It started the next morning. No warning, no discussion, just a text from Teddy that said, Get dressed. Black dress. No questions. I'd barely finished my first coffee when a black car pulled up outside like some sort of gothic fairy tale chariot for the emotionally exhausted. I didn't even bother arguing. I just got in.
He was already there, of course. Perfect. Polished. Looking like the human embodiment of a well-executed scandal. "We're doing damage control," he said before I'd even closed the door.
I buckled my seatbelt. "Your version of damage control usually looks like arson."
His mouth twitched. "Then consider this a controlled burn."
The day unfolded like a script he'd written weeks ago. A walk through Central Park, his hand casually resting on my back, photographers at
