PAPARAZZI & PUNCHLINES

The hospital doors hesitated before opening. That tiny tremor in their metal frame felt almost human like they were nervous about letting us step into a world that had been sharpening itself since dawn. For two weeks, my universe had shrunk to antiseptic hallways, whispered updates, the smell of disinfectant, the rhythmic ticking of trauma measured in IV drips. Time had dissolved there. I’d forgotten what air felt like when it moved.

But when those doors peeled open they didn’t reveal weather. They revealed a war zone.

Flashes detonated. A wall of bodies surged forward, an avalanche of elbows and lenses. The air vibrated with shouts, a cacophony so loud it felt like pressure behind my eyes. The smell of wet clothes, cheap deodorant, damp asphalt, telephoto lens grease and too many sensory notes colliding all at once.

My vision doubled.

The world warped.

I wasn’t outside a hospital I was back in the attic at Blackwater Hall, staring at a wall of portraits with too many watching eyes.

Julian sensed the shift in me before I even wobbled.

“Stay close,” he murmured.

His voice was low, gravel softened by concern. When his hand brushed the small of my back warm, slow, solid my skin lit up like it remembered how to be human.

And then the paparazzi lunged.

“AVA, LOOK HERE!”

“JULIAN, ARE YOU RESPONSIBLE?”

“GHOSTWRITER GIRL DID YOU KILL HIM?”

“WHO DIED? WAS IT YOUR FAULT?”

A camera flash cracked so close to my face I felt the heat of it on my cheek. The ocean wind barreled through the courtyard cold, salty, slicing through my sweater straight to my ribs. Someone shoved me from behind, and my boots slipped on rain-slick asphalt. My stomach dropped. Julian grabbed my elbow, fingers firm, grounding. His grip was warm through the fabric of my sweater, and the sensation shot up my arm like a flare.

The smell of his cologne; warmth with a hint of smoke.

Claire, meanwhile, transformed from PR agent into war general. She bulldozed through the photographers with weaponized heels and sunglasses and a tone that could freeze fire.

“Move,” she snapped, slicing a path. “Unless you want my lawyers to eat you for breakfast.”

Someone stepped into her space

“Try me.” She didn’t flinch, simply smiled

They moved.

She yanked the SUV door open like she was tearing a portal to salvation.

“In,” she commanded. “Before someone decides a concussion is good publicity.”

We dove inside.

The doors slammed.

The locks clicked sharp and final. Hands slapped against windows. Smudges smeared across the glass. Voices muffled into a dull roar. It smelled like leather seats, cold air and panic.

Julian realized his hand was still on my thigh not high, but enough to feel the weight of it. The warmth. The steady pulse in his palm. He withdrew gently, like removing a blanket from someone sleeping.

But the heat stayed.

A ghost-touch.

A lingering imprint.

Silence crept in, heavy and brittle.

Then my phone vibrated. I should’ve ignored it.

I didn’t.

Childhood habits are stronger than survival instincts.

When they’re talking about you behind your back, check.

Maybe this time it won’t hurt as much. But the world found new angles to stab me.

TRENDING: #GhostwriterGirl

TRENDING: #ValeDowngrade

TRENDING: #JulianValeCrisis

TRENDING: #AvaAlessiExposed

TRENDING: #BlackwaterBodies

The top post was a freeze-frame of me mid-stumble:

Hair tangled, pale skin, dark circles, and to top it off a big oversized sweater with baggy jeans and of course the muddy boots. I looked positively like a malnourished 16 years old in this picture.

Caption:

“Julian Vale’s new girlfriend looks like she survived the Second World War and barely survived”

The comments bloomed beneath it like rot:

“Is she okay? No like actually okay?”

“She looks… ugly? Please Julian pay her a plastic surgeon”

“Goodwill called, they want their entire inventory back.”

“Girl is one nervous breakdown away from killing someone else.”

“Nessa Lux would NEVER.”

Ah.Of course.

Nessa Lux.

Julian’s ex.

A supermodel carved from ice and expensive lighting. Her name trended every time she blinked.

And there it was:

Nessa Lux’s verified account had liked the downgrade meme.

Something tightened inside my ribs sharp, and thin.

Julian saw my reaction instantly.

“No,” he said. “No, don’t go there. Nessa likes anything that boosts her stupid ego. She’s just being petty. She doesn’t know you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I whispered.

“It shouldn’t,” he corrected softly, “but yeah. I know it does.”

I looked down at myself:

Oversized sweater. Rain-soaked jeans. Thrift-store boots. Hair frizzing from fear and humidity. I did look like the before in a makeover montage where the music is sad.

I could’ve swallowed that. I’ve swallowed worse.

But then Claire sucked in a breath sharp, precise.

“Oh no,” she said. “Not this. Not today REALLY!”

Julian stiffened.

“What now?”

She passed her phone toward us with the expression of someone presenting a bomb.

“Parodies on internet are going viral.”

The clip loaded. And even bracing myself wasn’t enough.

THE INTERNET SKIT:

The stage lit up with the crowd cheering. Fake hospital set so cheap it looked like a Halloween aisle tragedy.

“WELCOME BACK TO CELEBRITY CRISIS: LIVE!

Fake Julian stumbled in wearing a messy wig, overdone eyeliner, and a leather outfit that squeaked every time he moved.

“Hey guys!” he slurred. “It’s me your favorite rock disaster!”

The crowd CHEERED like they’d been fed Red Bull through an IV.

He rattled a giant pill bottle labeled:

“VALE‘S SIGNATURE MORNING SHAKE.”

The audience lost it.

“GOOD NEWS!” Fake Julian shouted.

“For once, the body wasn’t my fault! That’s called character development!”

Then Fake Ava shuffled onstage.

Her oversized sweater was enormous, clearly stolen off a scarecrow. Her wig looked like it’d been mugged by a seagull.

“Hi…” she whispered pathetically. “I’m Ava. I write better than I shower. And on occasion I’m accused of murder.”

The audience shrieked.

Fake Julian slung an arm around her dramatically.

“This is my NEW girlfriend!” he declared. I thought, why not date someone so different from my ex that even my therapist said ‘bro… rethink”

The crowd howled.

Fake Ava leaned into the mic.

“It’s okay. I know what you’re thinking… he downgraded.”

And then the kicker: Fake Levi rolled onstage on a hospital bed with wheels. Holding an IV bag filled with glitter. He sat up like a resurrected Disney villain.

“I CAME BACK,” Fake Levi croaked,

“JUST TO TELL YOU: BRO… NOT EVEN IN MY WILDEST OVERDOSES WOULD I HAVE SEEN THIS COMING.”

The audience HOWLED.

They launched into a parody of the Vale Brothers’ hit song:

“I Almost Died But At Least I Went Viral ”

With backup dancers dressed as paparazzi. Fake Ava waved her notebook like a white flag. Fake Julian pretended to sob into his guitar. Fake Levi “flatlined” on the beat drop for comedic effect. Confetti cannons blasted prescription bottles instead of glitter.

The curtain fell to thunderous applause.

Black.-

Silence fell like dust. Julian wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. The movement was shaky.

“They brought Levi back for a punchline…” he whispered.

Something in my chest twisted. My throat burned.

“They’re laughing at trauma. At grief. At victims. At you Ava. At Hanna.” Julian turned toward me slow, careful. His eyes were glassy but focused, like anchoring himself to my face kept him from drowning.

His hand lifted in a hesitation but he then he cupped my jaw with such gentleness it nearly ended me.

“Ava,” he said, voice breaking, “none of them see you. They only see the version they can profit from.”

The skin beneath his palm warmed. His breath brushed my cheek warm, steady, smelling faintly of mint and adrenaline.

My eyes blurred.

Claire cleared her throat, but the sound was different lower, strategic, dangerous.

“We need to get ahead of this,” she said. Her tone had shifted back into Miranda Priestly mode: cold and cunning with a shine. “We hit back hard, we seize the narrative, we expose every network that’s feeding this frenzy.”

Julian didn’t move his hand from my face.

“Not now,” he whispered to her.

“Claire, not now.”

But Claire wasn’t being callous she was being Claire: A strategist who saw the battlefield beyond our emotions.

“Listen carefully,” she said. “Those nobodies made their choices. The media chose the circus. Which means we choose the war.”

Her voice was ice carved into a blade.

“We will not let them make a corpse into a punchline. We will not let them turn you either of you into caricatures.” Her eyes cut to mine, softer but still sharp.

“Ava, you don’t get to crumble yet,” she said. “Not until we’re inside.”

But the moment she said “inside,” the SUV rounded the bend and Blackwater Hall came into view. The cliffs rose like jagged black teeth. The ocean below roared, sending up spray that misted the air.

Salt.

Cold.

The world outside clawed and screamed and demanded our blood, but the Hall… The Hall waited. And something inside me cracked.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Quietly the way ice cracks beneath the surface of a frozen lake, unheard until it’s too late.

My breath hitched and the world blurred. My chest tightened so sharply it felt like broken glass shifting with every inhale. I pressed a hand to my sternum.

It didn’t help.

Julian noticed instantly.

“Ava?” His voice was soft, urgent. “Hey, look at me.”

I tried to answer. Nothing came out. My throat constricted. My vision tunneled. The car felt too small, too loud, too bright.

Julian moved closer not touching at first, just there, letting me feel the warmth of him in my peripheral vision. Then he touched the back of my hand.

He laced his fingers with mine slow, gentle grounding me back into my body.

“Breathe with me,” he murmured.

His voice dropped lower, calm in a way that contrasted the storm outside. He pressed his forehead lightly to mine our breaths mingling, warm against cold air.

I could feel his pulse.

Steady.

Anchoring.

“Julian.” I choked. “I can’t-“

“You can,” he whispered.

“I’ve got you.”

Wind shook the SUV. The world kept spinning its cruelty. But in that small space between us , the warmth of his hand, the softness of his breath, the grounding weight of his forehead against mine.

There was quiet. Real quiet.

Claire wasn’t unfeeling she simply didn’t interfere until the worst of the spiral passed. Then, low, cunning, sharp as sharpened bone she said:

“We’re going inside now. No cameras. No microphones. No vultures. You break in there, where it’s safe. Not out here where they can film it.”

Julian brushed a tear from my cheek with his thumb. A touch so gentle it hurt.

“Ava,” he whispered, “you don’t have to be strong right now.”

And I broke.

Fully.

Julian wrapped an arm around me careful, warm, not suffocating holding me as if I were something fragile but worth protecting.

And Claire, for all her blade-sharp cunning, softened just enough to speak truth.

“They don’t get to see this,” she said. “Only we do.”

The SUV turned into the gates of Blackwater Hall. The world outside still screamed our names.

But inside this moment this small, trembling, quiet collapse was the first sense of safety I’d felt in weeks.

Julian’s arm was still around me, warm and steady. My breathing had evened, but only just enough. He kept his forehead against mine a moment longer before pulling back, just enough to see my face. His hand remained on my cheek, thumb brushing away the remnants of tears.

“Julian…” My voice wavered. “I don’t know if I can do this. The world hates me and I… I can’t keep carrying everything that happened. Or everything they’re saying. Or Levi. Or Hanna. Or”

His hand tightened around mine not enough to hurt, only enough to stop the spiral.

“Then don’t carry it alone.”

The way he said it steady, steady, steady felt like someone putting a warm coat around shaking shoulders.

“But you have your own grief,” I whispered. “Your own ghosts.”

His breath hitched; I felt it brush my cheek.

“Ava,” he said, voice lower, heavier, “do you honestly think I’d let you drown when I’m standing right next to you?”

“I feel like dead weight,” I admitted.

“You’re not, not at to me. he said. His thumb brushed the pulse at my throat.

“You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. And I’ve toured with rock bands.”

A shaky laugh escaped me the smallest, most reluctant sound.

Julian smiled.

Just barely.

His eyes softened at the edges.

“See?” he whispered. “You’re still here.”

I looked down, voice quiet. “I hate how small I feel.”

“You’re anything but small,” he said. “You’ll never be small to me.”

I closed my eyes.

“And when we get inside that house,” he continued, “I want you to let yourself fall apart if you need to. Break. Cry. Scream. Sleep. I don’t care. I’ll sit with you. I’ll stay. I won’t go anywhere.”

My breath caught. “Why?”

His answer came without hesitation.

“Because you stayed for me,” he whispered. “In ways you don’t even realize.”

Something inside me clenched. Something deep. Something old.

“Julian,” I said softly, “you don’t owe me anything.”

He turned my chin gently so I had to look him in the eyes.

“It’s not a debt,” he said. “It’s a choice.”

The SUV rolled to a stop in front of Blackwater Hall. The rain tapped softly against the windows , light, almost rhythmic. Claire watched us from the front seat, her expression unreadable but undeniably protective.

“Are you ready?” Julian asked.

“No,” I breathed. “Not at all.”

His fingers tightened around mine. We sat there in the soft darkness of the car, breathing the same air, holding on like two storm-wrecked people clinging to the same piece of wood.

Not romantic.

Not yet.

But unmistakably, terrifyingly human.

Then he finally said : “I want you to be Ava,” he said. “Just Ava. That’s more than enough to me.”

My breath shook. “And you?”

His answer was quiet. Fragile around the edges. True in the center.

“I’ll be Julian,” he said. “Not the persona. Not the headlines. Just me.”

The words sank into the space between us, warm and steady a lifeline thrown in the quiet after the storm.

Claire finally broke the silence, voice low and sharp as ever:

“When you’re ready,” she said, “the world can burn. But you two? You need to walk inside first.”

Julian squeezed my hand.

“Ava,” he murmured, “Can you stand?”

“Only if you don’t let go,” I whispered.

“I won’t,” he replied.

And he didn’t.