Daryll was quiet. He’d been doing PR for fifteen years. He’d managed scandals and crises and the kind of bad press that made careers implode. He’d never seen anything like this. A crisis that wasn’t a crisis. A scandal that was actually a hero story. Three stalkers who became the most credible character witnesses money couldn’t buy. And Sam Pemberton—whose name was now trending alongside Arianne’s, whose elbows had just made her more famous than any runway show ever had.

He rotated his screen toward Monica. "Look at this."

The clip of Sam had been isolated further. Someone had slowed it down, added a caption: Sam Pemberton doesn’t need a stunt double. The comments were pouring in. The fan forums were buzzing. The entertainment press was already drafting profiles.

"I gave her to Keller," Daryll said again.

"You mentioned that."

"I should call her."

"Sam?"

"Keller’s fine. He’s competent. But he’s not going to know what to do with this." He gestured at the screen. "She’s about to get offers. Real ones. Not favors for Gilbert Pemberton’s sister. She’s going to need someone who can handle the volume. Someone who can negotiate. Someone who’s seen a moment like this before and knows how to turn it into a career."

Monica was watching him. "You want to take her on."

"I’m thinking about it."

"She’s not going to be easy. She’s not a typical client."

Daryll looked at the screen—Sam’s elbow, Sam’s fists, Sam’s dark hair swinging as she pivoted to meet the second man. He’d met her. He knew she wasn’t typical. That was the point.

"No," he said. "She’s not. But neither is Arianne. Neither is Noah." He paused. "Maybe it’s time I stopped handling the easy ones."

By eight o’clock, the entertainment outlets had picked up the story.

The framing had completely flipped. The headlines that had called Arianne violent were replaced with new ones: Summers and Pemberton: How Two Heiresses Fought Off Five Men. Noah Hart’s Partner and Friend Stop Abduction Outside Club. The Video That Changed Everyone’s Mind About Arianne Summers.

The photo was everywhere now. Grainy, taken from a distance—probably a passerby outside the station, someone who’d recognized Noah and snapped a picture before thinking. His hand on her shoulder. Her face turned toward him. The headline beneath it: She’s Not Who You Thought She Was.

Legal commentators were weighing in. The charges Arianne had filed—attempted abduction, assault, property damage—were being analyzed by people who understood the law. The compensation demands were being reported as legitimate. Brent’s name had surfaced. His family’s name. The Taylor connection. The Sinclair connection. The story was getting bigger.

"This is the best PR Noah’s ever had," Monica said. "And we didn’t do any of it."

"We didn’t have to."

Daryll was scrolling through the fan forum again. The three fans—Mari, Rina, Tess—were being treated like heroes. Their admission of stalking was being forgiven, even praised, because they’d been honest about it. Because they’d apologized. Because they’d tried to help.

"She’s good for him," Daryll said.

Monica looked up. "What?"

"Arianne. She’s good for him." He gestured at the screen. "Look at this. The same fanbase that was suspicious of her a week ago is now calling her family. Three women who followed her across the city are posting public apologies and thanking her for saving their lives. She and Sam walked into a fight with five men and walked out without a scratch. She filed charges for strangers. She paid for their medical care. She put the ringleader on the ground with her knee and then told the police exactly what he’d done."

"And Sam," Monica added. "People are loving her too."

"Rightfully so." Daryll shook his head. "Arianne doesn’t need us. She doesn’t need spin or damage control or carefully worded statements. The public loves her for it. They love both of them."

Monica was watching him. "You sound impressed."

"I’m terrified. And impressed. She doesn’t need us. She just—handles things." He paused. "Noah chose well."

"You said that already."

"I’m saying it again. And I’m calling Sam Pemberton this afternoon."

Monica raised an eyebrow. "Keller won’t like it."

"Keller can deal with it. She needs someone who knows what they’re doing."

Monica’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it. "The fan club is asking if they should issue a formal statement of support. Something official. On behalf of the entire community."

Daryll considered. A formal statement from Noah’s official fan club, publicly backing Arianne, would be unprecedented. It would also be a declaration of loyalty—a message to anyone who tried to attack her in the future that they’d have to go through the fans first.

"Tell them to wait," he said. "No statement from us. No statement from the fan club. Let the story run on its own. The less we manage it, the more authentic it looks."

"And if someone asks for a comment?"

"No comment. Noah’s private life is private. We don’t confirm or deny. We’ve been saying that for months. We keep saying it."

Monica nodded. She typed something into her phone, then set it aside.

The office settled into something like quiet. The news cycle was still churning, but the crisis was over. The story had become what it was always going to become: not a scandal—a vindication. Arianne Summers and Sam Pemberton had been tested in public, and they’d passed together.

Daryll looked at the photo again. The grainy image of Noah and Arianne outside the station. His hand on her shoulder. Her face turned toward him. The way she was looking at him—not at the camera, not at the crowd, just at him.

He’d managed Noah’s career for years. He’d seen him on red carpets, at press events, in interviews. He’d seen him with co-stars and directors and fans. He’d never seen him look at anyone the way he looked at Arianne.

And Sam. She had something. Not just connections. Not just a famous brother. Something raw and watchable.

He’d call her this afternoon. Before Keller had a chance to fumble the moment. Before someone else snapped her up.

Outside his window, the city was waking up. The story was already spreading. The video. The fans. The fight. By noon, everyone would know what had happened outside that club—two women against five men, and the men never stood a chance.

For the first time in months, Daryll didn’t worry about what they’d think. He was too busy planning his next move.