The press was about to drag my life into print, and it wasn’t even the version I would’ve written. I had forty-eight hours to figure out how much of the truth I was willing to own.
I called Sandra first. She picked up on the second ring, all business. I read the email straight through, voice flat. She went quiet for a second, thinking. “How much do they actually have?” she asked.
“The business side is locked, the contract, the gala. Personal stuff… they’re just poking around, hoping I’ll fill in the blanks.”
“Then we'll give them nothing solid,” she said. “Short statement, facts only. No emotions, no extra meat for them to chew on. Send it to me, I’ll sharpen it up.”
My lawyer said basically the same thing and caught two lines I’d already decided to kill. I thanked her, but my stomach
