Chapter 15: The Viral Response
The silence Simon left behind was a physical thing. It hung in the grand living room like acrid smoke, thick and difficult to breathe. Matt closed the door, the click of the lock definitive. He leaned his forehead against the cool wood, listening to the gravel crunch as the car pulled away.
Dee hadn’t moved. She stood in the kitchen archway, a statue in an oversized shirt. He went to her, pried her fingers from where they gripped the edge of the counter. They were ice-cold.
“Hey,” he said, softly.
She blinked, as if coming out of a trance. “He’s going to ruin you.”
“Let him try.”
“Don’t say that like it’s a catchphrase.” She pulled her hands away, wrapping her arms around herself. “He will. He’ll leak something. An old contract dispute, a fabricated on-set complaint from a co-star, something about addiction therapy you did ten years ago. He’ll plant a seed of doubt and water it until it’s a forest.”
“Then we plant our own seeds first.” He guided her to the living room sofa, sat her down, and fetched a blanket from the back of a chair, draping it over her shoulders. “Your idea was right. We make a statement. Today.”
They worked through the night, wired on dread and determination. Dee, with her meticulous grasp of media, drafted. Matt, with his instinct for public sentiment, edited. They argued over semicolons and the weight of the word “private.” The first streaks of dawn were bleeding pink and orange over the ocean when they agreed on three succinct paragraphs. It was respectful but firm. It acknowledged their long history, confirmed a recent romantic connection, and politely requested privacy. It contained no apologies.
Dee sent it to a publicist named Lara Cho, a razor-sharp woman Simon had once derided as “all tactics and no loyalty.” Lara’s response came in ninety seconds: Perfect. Distributing now. Brace.
They braced.
Now, in the kitchen bathed in harsh, beautiful morning light, the world reacted. Dee’s phone, set to silent, vibrated against the granite countertop with a persistent, insectile hum. She poured coffee from the French press, the rich, bitter smell cutting through the salt air. Matt came up behind her, his chin resting on her shoulder, watching the screen illuminate again and again.
Notifications stacked up like dominoes. Instagram. Twitter. Variety. The Hollywood Reporter.
“Lara’s fast,” Dee murmured, tapping the screen. She opened Instagram. Their joint statement was posted on a neutral fan-controlled news page Lara often used. The numbers were dizzying. “A million likes. In an hour.”
Matt let out a low whistle. “Comments?”
She scrolled, her body tense against his. “Mostly… good. ‘King and Queen.’ ‘Finally!’ Heart emojis. A lot of ‘I knew it!’” A small, disbelieving laugh escaped her. “There’s a GIF of us from that charity gala last year. Someone’s circled the way you were looking at me.”
He remembered that gala. He’d spent the whole night trying not to look at her, the midnight blue dress she wore making it a form of torture. “So the public’s verdict is ‘duh.’”
Her phone buzzed again, a text this time. Then another.
Unknown Number: Saw the news. About damn time, man. Fire emoji. – C
Matt frowned, then smiled. “Chris Evans.”
Another text.
M. Nichols: Well, this explains the palpable tension in my screening room last fall. Call me. I want to direct the wedding film.
Dee giggled, a real, bright sound that seemed to startle her. “Mike Nichols is joking. He has to be joking.”
“He doesn’t joke.” Matt took the phone from her, scrolling. Texts from old co-stars, directors, his stylist, his stunt coordinator. A fragmented, overwhelming chorus of support. It felt like a bulwark against Simon’s predicted storm.
Then the screen went dark, before lighting up with a specific, chilling caller ID: DAD.
The vibration was angrier this time. A judge’s gavel.
All the lightness drained from Dee’s face. She stared at the phone as if it were a live scorpion. It rang, and rang, and went to voicemail. Ten seconds later, it began again.
Without looking away, she reached out and flipped the phone over, screen-down on the cold stone. The muffled buzzing continued, a trapped, furious bee.
“He can’t spin this,” she said, her voice quiet but solid. She turned to face Matt, her hazel eyes bright with a defiant, weary triumph. “The narrative is ours. The public loves a love story. They love this love story.”
Matt set his coffee mug down. It made a soft, final click. He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs tracing the faint shadows under her eyes. “Then let’s give them something to love.”
He kissed her. It wasn’t like the desperate, solace-seeking kisses of the night before. This was different. This was a claiming. A celebration in the mouth of the beast’s den. Her lips were soft and tasted of coffee. She sighed into him, her hands coming up to clutch the front of his t-shirt.
He walked her backward until the small of her back met the sun-warmed edge of the kitchen island. The forgotten phone buzzed once more against the granite and fell still. He pushed the linen shirt off her shoulders, it catching for a moment on her wrists before she shrugged it free. The morning sun gilded her skin, highlighting the delicate curve of her collarbone, the slope of her breasts.
“Here?” she whispered, a playful challenge in her eyes.
“Right here,” he said, his voice rough.
He lifted her, seating her on the cool stone. The stack of unopened scripts teetered. A manila envelope from Germany, still sealed, slid to the floor. He stepped between her thighs, his hands sliding up her ribs, his mouth leaving a trail of heat down her neck. She arched against him, her fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer.
The world outside—the notifications, the headlines, the ominous silence from her father—receded into a distant hum. There was only the feel of his calloused palms on the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, the sound of her sharp inhale when he touched her, the blinding gold of the sun through the window.
He made love to her there on the kitchen island, with a slow, sun-drenched intensity that felt like an exorcism and a consecration. It was quiet, punctuated only by gasps and the creak of the cabinet door her heel kept knocking against. When she came, it was with a soft, broken cry he swallowed with a kiss. He followed her over the edge, his forehead dropping to her shoulder.
They stayed like that for a long moment, tangled and breathless, slick with sweat in the morning heat. The coffee would be cold. The phone would have more messages.
But for now, the only thing that mattered was the steady, anchoring beat of his heart against hers, and the sun painting their skin in light, as if sealing a promise. The battle lines were drawn, but in this stolen, golden hour, they had won the first skirmish. They had each other, and they had the morning. It would have to be enough, for now.