But his regrets were his own, and they were his to keep. And if they’d brought him to Wren, he’d bear their weight gladly.
So he told his first lie of the entire interview. “Nope. No regrets.”
Vika’s sharp glance revealed her skepticism, but she didn’t push. She likely knew there was no point, not unless she wanted the interview to end prematurely.
And it wasn’t a total falsehood, really. When it came to his arrest, he still had zero regrets. None. The people who mattered either knew exactly what had happened or understood he wouldn’t have thrown punches without a damn good reason.
Everyone else could go fuck themselves.
“Okay.” Vika gave a tiny shrug and let it go. “Time for our final question, formulated and selected by my readers.”
Her assistant handed over the cell phone. Vika’s lips moved slightly as she read the poll results, and she frowned.
There was a long pause.
“I’ll be honest.” The blogger sighed. “I don’t love the question.”
Wren’s thigh against his didn’t twitch. Her shoulder under his palm remained loose. Her eyes were clear and curious and unafraid.
“Whatever your readers asked will be fine.” The steady confidence in Wren’s voice couldn’t be faked, and he decided to trust it. To trust her ability to weather whatever was about to happen. “Go ahead, Vika.”
“What would you say to people who believe there’s no way a marriage like yours, between two such different people, can possibly last?” Vika pinched the bridge of her nose and shook her head. “I’m sorry. Please feel free not to answer.”
His skull began pounding.
He and Wren had different personalities and came from different backgrounds. Fair enough. But this question wasn’t about that, really, and everyone in the room understood its unspoken, unkind implications.
The question was a veiled swipe at how she looked. It was a prediction that their marriage would fail because the public considered him—and not her—attractive.
His face was turning hot, his breathing fast, but he bit his tongue. Hard.
Wren laid a cool, steady hand over his. “I’ll take this one, Alex.”
Please trust that I’ll advocate for myself, she’d said on those stairs months ago, his cheek cradled in her palm. Please trust me.
He took a deep breath. Another.
Then he nodded, a mute invitation for her to handle it.
After that, she didn’t hesitate.
“Please excuse my profanity, Vika,” she said calmly, “but in the immortal words of my husband: Those people can go fuck themselves.”
Vika gasped, and his mouth dropped open for a moment too, because—Wren, of all people? Wren had invited untold thousands of people to fuck themselves?
And then, jubilant, he tugged his wife into his arms and squeezed her tight and laughed in her ear. Loudly. Unkind observers might even have called it a cackle.
When he pulled back and raised his hand for a high five, she returned it.
“Big Harpy Energy!” he shouted, and it echoed through their home. “Big Harpy Goddamn Energy, Wren!”
She inclined her head. “The Crone Arts student has become the Crone Arts master.”
Her smile was serene and proud, and he loved her so fucking much, the sheer volume and force of it should have split him wide open.
THE NEXT DAY, despite Vika’s doubts, Alex convinced her not to edit out the final question.
Three days later, her audience saw the interview in its entirety.
And ten minutes after that, the first new fan account—@LaurenCleggFTW—went live.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THE FACT THAT I EMERGED FROM 2020—AKA THE CURSèD Year of Doom—somewhat intact is entirely due to my friends and family. Those friends consistently emailed, DMed, FaceTimed, and wrote letters and postcards to remind me I was loved and never as isolated as I sometimes felt, and their efforts meant everything to me. I owe special thanks to Therese Beharrie, Emma Barry, and Mia Sosa, who kept me tethered to the world outside my Swedish apartment and who always, always cared about my well-being. You are so dear to me. Thank you.
My husband, as always, accepted me precisely as I am and did his damnedest to support me however he could. My daughter’s pride and faith in me, her unstinting affection and joy and humor, lit the dark Swedish winter. My mom devoted so much time and effort to sending care packages of potato buns, Utz pretzels, and rocks （of course） across the Atlantic. She knew my long absence from the U.S. hurt me, so she cushioned the blow with each overstuffed box, and I’m so grateful. I love you all.