Chapter 30: Six Months Is a Long Time to Pretend
Six months sounds reasonable when spoken aloud.
It sounds like a compromise, a buffer, a chance to let emotions cool and systems adjust. But living inside six months feels very different. It stretches. It watches you. It asks questions every single day.
The morning after the fundraiser arrived with consequences.
Not loud ones.
Measured ones.
Lucien's calendar changed shape—fewer public appearances, more internal reviews. Meetings multiplied but shortened, each one designed to observe rather than resolve. I watched from the edges, aware that my visibility had shifted the balance in ways neither of us could fully predict.
He didn't say I had complicated things.
He didn't need to.
"You're trending," his assistant said neutrally while handing me a tablet.
I glanced at the screen. Articles. Clips. Commentary.
Who is she?
Quiet power or calculated exposure?
The woman beside the decision-maker.
I handed it back. "I'm not an accessory."
"No," she agreed. "You're a variable."
That word again.
By midmorning, Lucien was summoned into another closed session. This one longer. This one deliberate.
I didn't wait in the lobby.
I went outside.
The city moved around me, indifferent to internal power struggles. Vendors shouted prices. People argued, laughed, lived. None of them cared who was being measured behind glass walls.
I breathed deeper.
If I was going to be a variable, I would at least be an honest one.
The shelter called.
Not with bad news. Not with good.
With reality.
"We've had three new partnership offers," the director said. "And two cancellations."
"Because of me?" I asked.
"Because of attention," she replied. "It doesn't choose sides. It just shows up."
"Do you want me to step back?" I asked quietly.
There was a pause. Then: "No. We want you to step forward—but aware."
When Lucien finally emerged hours later, his shoulders carried a tension he hadn't had before.
"They're accelerating evaluations," he said.
"Because of the fundraiser?" I asked.
"Because you spoke without apology," he replied. "They don't know where to place you."
"That's good," I said.
"It's dangerous," he corrected.
"They're the same thing," I replied.
That evening, we ate separately.
Not by conflict—by necessity. Calls overlapped. Schedules fractured. Six months had begun to carve lines through our days.
Later, we found each other again in the quiet.
"They asked me today," Lucien said, loosening his tie, "if I could guarantee that this wouldn't become permanent."
I didn't ask who this was.
"What did you say?" I asked.
"That permanence isn't something you guarantee," he replied. "It's something you earn."
"And?" I pressed.
"And they didn't like that answer," he said.
The following week hardened everything.
Security increased around me. Subtle but present. Routes adjusted. Schedules reviewed.
I felt watched—not protected.
At the shelter, a journalist approached me unexpectedly.
"Are you using philanthropy to soften your public image?" she asked.
I smiled calmly. "I didn't have a public image before this."
"That doesn't mean you don't have one now," she said.
"Then judge it by consistency," I replied. "Not proximity."
The article that followed was… fair.
That alone made it powerful.
Lucien read it in silence.
"They'll say you're positioning yourself," he said.
"I am," I replied. "As myself."
One night, exhaustion won.
I snapped.
Not at him—at the situation.
"I didn't sign up to be studied," I said, pacing. "I didn't agree to live inside implications."
Lucien watched me quietly. "Neither did I."
"I don't want to make you smaller," I continued. "I don't want your legacy rewritten around me."
He stood, crossed the room, and stopped me gently.
"You're not shrinking me," he said. "You're testing whether I was ever as solid as I claimed."
I swallowed. "And what if you fail?"
"Then I learn," he replied. "And I rebuild."
The words stayed with me.
Days passed.
Pressure settled into routine.
Six months began to feel like a test with no syllabus.
Then the first real offer arrived.
A televised interview.
Not about Lucien.
About me.
My work. My choices. My voice.
Lucien didn't tell me what to do.
He only asked one thing. "Are you ready to be misinterpreted?"
I thought of the girl at the shelter. Of staying. Of choosing visibility.
"Yes," I said.
The interview aired two days later.
I spoke carefully. Honestly. Without spectacle.
I didn't deny connection.
I didn't center it either.
Reaction was divided—but undeniable.
That night, Lucien received messages he didn't show me.
I knew because he became quieter.
"They're adjusting strategy," he said finally.
"Meaning?" I asked.
"They've realized you're not leaving," he replied. "So they're deciding how to move around you."
"And you?" I asked.
He looked at me steadily. "I'm deciding whether to stop moving at all."
The city outside shimmered with late-night energy.
Six months stretched ahead—long, uncertain, heavy with consequence.
I took his hand.
"We don't have to win," I said. "We just have to remain honest."
He squeezed my fingers. "Honesty is expensive."
"I know," I replied. "But pretending costs more."
Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed, then faded.
Life continued.
Pressure evolved.
And six months—once theoretical—settled into something real.
Not a countdown.
A confrontation.
And we were no longer pretending it wasn't happening.