My name is Diana Winfield, and for the first time in three years, I understood a quiet truth about freedom.
It does not arrive with fireworks.
It arrives with silence.
The elevator carried us down through the guts of the Greyburn House Hotel, through service corridors and private access points designed so powerful people never had to brush shoulders with the public. Marco stood near the doors, still, watchful, a shadow with a pulse. Noah stared at his tablet, the glow painting hard angles across his face. I watched my reflection in the brushed steel as the floor numbers slid downward like a countdown.
My cheek no longer burned, but the memory of the slap still lived in my skin, like a watermark. Not pain. Proof.
When the elevator chimed open into the garage, the air smelled of concrete and cold exhaust. A black sedan waited at the far end, engine running, headlights dimmed. Two members of my security detail stood with their backs to the vehicle, scanning the space, shoulders squared in a posture that said they expected trouble, and were prepared to end it quickly.
I stepped out.
The noise of the ballroom, the reporters, the chanting outside, all of it was gone. It was as if the world had slammed a door behind me.
Noah walked beside me.
“You did what you needed to do,” he said.
“I did what I should have done three years ago,” I replied.
Marco opened the rear door. I slid in. The leather was cool against the backs of my hands. Noah took the seat across from me. Marco shut the door with a soft, final click, then moved around to the front passenger seat.
The car rolled forward.
Chicago at night was a river of light and rain. The street lamps smeared into gold streaks on wet asphalt. The city looked like it was trying to pretend nothing had happened, as if a billionaire wife had not just detonated a life on stage while a crowd watched.
Noah’s tablet buzzed.
“We’re already seeing the swing,” he said.
“Stock?”
“Online sentiment. The hashtag shifted.” He hesitated, then angled the screen toward me.
#JusticeForTessa was drowning.
New tags were rising like bubbles from the bottom of a lake.
#UneditedFootage.
#BotFarm.
#MercerFraud.
#WinfieldTruth.
Underneath, the tone of the comments had changed. The mob that had wanted to burn me a few hours ago had discovered a new drug.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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