April might not want him anymore, but he wasn’t going to stand by while that smirking asshole or anyone else dismissed their relationship as a PR stunt or political statement.

“My relationship with Ms. Whittier is real.” He spoke directly into the mic, each word deliberate and chilly. “She’s an incredibly intelligent and talented woman, as well as gorgeous.”

The boyfriend snorted at that, and Marcus stared at him. Kept staring, stony and expressionless, until that hateful little smile evaporated.

“I consider myself fortunate to have dated her, and I would be proud to have her by my side at any and all red carpets, if she were willing to accompany me.” One brow raised challengingly, he turned back to the woman. “Does that answer your question?”

“Um . . .” She dropped back into her seat with a distinct thump, eyes wide. “Yes. Thank you.”

It wasn’t enough to make up for how he’d hurt April, but at least he’d proven one thing.

Whatever else he was, he wasn’t her goddamn father.

Right now, for the first time in years, he was only himself. No more, and definitely no less. Whether that would be enough—for her, for Gates fans, for his parents—he couldn’t say.

But at long last, after almost four decades, it was enough for him.

TWO MINUTES BEFORE their session was due to begin, Summer Diaz rushed into the backstage area and offered April a quick, slightly sweaty hug.

“I’m so sorry,” she gasped. “The group panel ran long. There were a lot of audience questions. Awkward ones.”

“Oh?” April tucked her hair behind her ear, doing her best not to appear as starved for information as she actually was, especially if said information included Marcus. “What were people asking?”

One of the conference organizers was waving at them, trying to catch their attention. April deliberately shifted until Summer blocked any view of him.

The other woman was watching April carefully, her breathing slowly returning to normal. “Among other things, why Marcus suddenly sounded like a PhD candidate, instead of the most handsome village idiot on earth. Whether his relationship with you was real, or just a publicity stunt.”

April’s mouth was gaping. She knew it, but the air in the hotel suddenly seemed unusually thin, so much so that she needed to gulp for breath.

“What—” Another shallow breath. Another. “What did he say?”

“Quite a bit. Let me see.” Summer tilted her head. “The highlights: he’s shy and dyslexic and happy to explain more in an interview that should be posted either late tonight or tomorrow.”

Holy fuck. Holy fuck.

He’d done it. He’d disposed of his old persona in the most public way possible, short of interrupting a royal wedding to announce his dyslexia via interpretive dance before setting fire to a series of hair products.

Not that he would ever set fire to his hair products. He was very, very attached to them. Especially his soft-hold mousse, which smelled like rosemary and fluffy clouds and money.

“How did the audience react?” The central, terrifying question.

Summer lifted a shoulder. “They were sympathetic, albeit confused. I think the interview will help smooth over any ill feelings, once it’s posted.”

April gripped the back of a nearby chair, knees literally weak with relief.

“And . . . what did he say about me?” It was nearly a whisper, because the con organizer was coming closer, but she wasn’t sure she could have spoken louder under any circumstances.

“You’re intelligent, talented, and gorgeous.” One by one, Summer ticked off the adjectives on her fingers. “Your relationship is real, and he’s proud to be with you.”

April closed her eyes then, willing the tears back into her sinuses.

“We’re already a minute late.” The organizer sounded harried. “Are you two ready?”

Eyes still closed, April nodded.

“Sure,” Summer said. “April?”

Then they were moving out onto the stage, squinting under the lights, and April was looking down at her notes and trying to concentrate on the job at hand. More people kept shuffling into the room, standing at the back as she introduced Summer to the audience, and she couldn’t help but wonder whether they too were coming straight from the full-cast panel, whether they’d heard what Marcus had said. About himself, about her. About them.

Can’t think about that now.

“Summer,” she said, angling herself in her chair to face the other woman more directly, “to start us off, can you explain what drew you to the character of Lavinia?”

The rest of the session was a blur, punctuated in places by Summer’s keen empathy for her character and the intelligence with which she answered questions about her work, the books that had inspired the series, and the experience of acting on a show with such a broad global reach. Through it all, April tried her best to remain clear and present and prepared for whatever might occur, but it all went smoothly, more smoothly than she’d even hoped.

Then, as planned, they had ten minutes left for questions and answers.

One of the con volunteers picked an audience member, someone April vaguely remembered joining the session moments after she’d introduced Summer.

The tall, generously rounded girl, who couldn’t have been much older than twenty, smiled shyly as she looked at April. “Hi. I’m Leila, and I was hoping to ask a question.”

April smiled back, as encouragingly as she could. “Hi, Leila. Go ahead. Summer would be delighted to answer any question you might have.”

The girl’s brow crinkled. “No, I mean I was hoping to ask you a question.”

Oh.

Oh, shit.

In her peripheral vision, she could see Summer taking out a cell phone and feverishly thumbing away, which seemed odd and sort of rude under the circumstances, but April supposed no one in the audience was paying attention to the actor right now anyway.

No, they were all looking at her, and they all knew what this young woman wanted to ask about. Marcus. Of course, Marcus.

The con organizer was waving at her from the side of the stage, mouthing something. It’s up to you, if she was interpreting the man’s exaggerated lip movements correctly.

Her privacy was at stake here, but so was her pride.

So was her heart.

Marcus would eventually see this, she knew. At the very least, he’d hear about it, from Summer or someone else. And maybe she hadn’t thought the convention was the right place to have this conversation, and maybe she hadn’t intended to expose her heart to a hall full of strangers before speaking to him directly, but she wasn’t going to evade the question, whatever it was.

He loved her. He loved her, and Marcus had already loved too many people who’d failed him. Who’d ignored his needs. Who’d refused to acknowledge him publicly.

She was proud of him and for him, and whatever happened between them next, he needed to know that.

After a shuddering breath, she mentally hiked up her big-girl panties and answered the young woman. “Sure. What’s your question?”

“At the cast panel—” Leila gestured vaguely toward the door. “You know, the one that happened right before this session?”

April tipped her head in acknowledgment.

The girl continued, “Anyway, at that panel, Marcus Caster-Rupp said he wasn’t with you as a publicity stunt.”

“Our relationship has nothing to do with publicity.” The words were firm. Definitive. “The first time we met, the attraction was immediate and mutual.”

And that remained true whether she meant their first online meeting or their first date.

“Oh. Good.” Leila’s brief smile was beautiful, wide enough to plump her cheeks adorably. “Are you two still dating? Because it . . .” The microphone picked up the little catch in her throat. “It meant a lot to me to see you two t-together.”

When April met the girl’s eyes, she saw pain and need there. The same pain and need that had clawed at her for decades, and the same pain and need that had drawn her inexorably into the Lavineas fandom.

Please tell me people who look like us can be loved.

Please tell me people who look like us can be desired.

Please tell me people who look like us can have happy endings.

She bit her lip. Dropped her chin to her chest. Considered what to tell the girl. Dammit, she hadn’t intended to say any of this, but—

“Not to sound like a social media status update, but it’s complicated.” The audience chuckled, and she huffed out a small sound of amusement too. “Let me make one thing absolutely clear, though: If we do break up, it won’t be because our relationship was fake, or because he doesn’t like how I look. He wants me exactly as I am. Believe me”—she slanted the audience a smile dripping with smug confidence—“I know.”

Leila giggled at that, and April laughed with her and reached for a well-deserved sip of water. Only to see, when she turned away from the audience, someone standing at the far edge of the stage, blocked from the sight of session attendees by a curtain.

Not the con organizer. Not a volunteer.

Marcus.

His chest was heaving, as if he’d run through the hotel to reach her. He was clutching his cell, and April suddenly knew exactly whom Summer had been texting earlier and why.

He was staring at her, face pinched into a concerned frown. It was easy enough to read his lips, to interpret the sweep of his arm toward the unseen audience. I’m sorry.

When she smiled at him, his gaze turned soft. Still worried, but gentle and affectionate.

“Leila, you didn’t ask me this, but I want to make something else clear.” She spoke into her microphone, but she was looking at him. Always, always at him. “If Marcus and I break up, it won’t be because I want to, and it won’t be because I don’t love him.”

He’d gone very, very still, his face grave.

“I do love him. Of course I love him. How could I not love him?” It was an impossibility, really. An inevitability, from that first direct message on the Lavineas server. “He’s such a talented man. Incredibly knowledgeable and smart and so curious about everything.”