“She’s delusional.”
“And we are not going to engage emotionally,” Rachael replies. “We’re addressing it legally.”
I pace the length of the kitchen and back, the morning’s calm shattered. “She’s violating the restraining order again.”
“We’re reviewing whether this constitutes contact under the existing terms,” she says. “Legal is on it.”
“On it?” I echo. “She’s on camera claiming, what, that we had a relationship?”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. No doubt Rachael gathering her thoughts, calculating.
“I want you back in LA,” she says finally. “We can manage this more effectively from here. Centralize press. Limit exposure. Control the narrative.”
I stop moving.
“No.”
Silence.
“Rafe,” she says carefully.
“No,” I repeat, steadier now. “I’m not leaving.”
“This isn’t about pride.”
“It’s not pride.”
“You’re escalating your presence in a situation that is already unstable.”
“I’m not escalating anything.”
“You being there increases proximity risk.”
“My husband has an away game tomorrow,” I say, my voice dropping into something that feels almost like steel. “And we have a day off the day after that.”
She knows what that means. It’s our anniversary. It’s publicly known now, and no longer something we pretend doesn’t exist.
“I’m not missing it,” I continue. “Not now. Not ever again.”
Rachael exhales slowly. She’s rarely met resistance from me like this. I don’t snap at her. I don’t override her strategy. I know better. She’s kept me alive through worse storms than this.
But this isn’t a press tour or a messy breakup headline.
This is us.
“I understand the sentiment,” she says. “But strategically?—”
“I don’t care about strategy,” I cut in, then rein myself in. “I care about being there.”
There’s a beat of silence where she weighs the cost of pushing me further.
“Ollie has an away game tomorrow,” she says finally. “You’ll be traveling.”
“Yes.”
“And security?”
“Vinny’s coordinating with their team.”