Page 80 of Off-Limits as Puck

“He was guilty. But he was also the love of her life. Twenty-five years later, they’re still stupid happy.”

“That’s different. Your mom didn’t destroy her career—”

“She absolutely did. No one trusted her after that. Colleagues said she was compromised, that she couldn’t be objective. She spent five years freelancing for alt-weeklies before anyone would hire her full-time again.”

“But she survived.”

“She did more than survive. She built something better.” Maddy refills our glasses. “Look, I’m not saying your situation is identical. But maybe—maybe this isn’t the disaster you think it is. Maybe it’s just the thing that forces you to figure out what you actually want.”

“I want my career back.”

“Do you? Or do you want the version of success your father painted for you?”

The question hangs between us like smoke. Because she’s right, isn’t she? I’ve been chasing Chris Clark’s definition of achievement for so long I forgot to ask if it was making me happy.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I don’t know what I want anymore.”

“That’s okay. You don’t have to know tonight.” She leans back, studying me with those sharp eyes. “But can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“The equipment shed incident—was that the only time?”

I freeze, wine halfway to my lips. “What?”

“The blackmail texts mention equipment shed photos specifically. I’m trying to figure out how much damage we’re looking at.”

“We?”

“The team. The organization. Damage control requires knowing the full scope.” Her voice is carefully neutral, but something feels off. Too practiced. Too prepared.

“I thought you said this was about what I want, not damage control.”

“It’s both. I can’t help you if I don’t know everything.”

“Help me what? Figure out my feelings or manage the crisis?”

“Chelsea—”

“No.” I set down my wine, the pieces clicking together with sickening clarity. “You’re working. Right now. This isn’t friendship—it’s reconnaissance.”

“That’s not—”

“You’re here to find out what other photos exist. What other evidence could surface. How much worse this could get.” I stand, backing away from her. “Everything you just said about love and choice and building something better—that was just you getting me to open up.”

“I do want to help you—”

“But you want to help the team more.” The betrayal tastes like copper. “Jesus, Maddy. I trusted you.”

“You can still trust me. This doesn’t have to be adversarial.”

“Doesn’t it? You work for them. You’re paid to protect their interests. And their interest is making this go away quietly.”

She doesn’t deny it, which is answer enough.

“How many others are there?” I ask quietly. “Photos. Incidents they’re worried about.”

“Chelsea—”

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