A Calculated Truth

VANESSA

Standing backstage at the hastily arranged press conference, I felt like I was preparing for my own execution. The low murmur of journalists grew louder as more arrived, hungry vultures waiting to pick apart our story.

"Here." Roman handed me a water bottle, his fingers brushing mine. "You look like you need it."

I accepted it wordlessly, taking a small sip. Despite everything, I appreciated the gesture.

"The statement is solid," he said, glancing at the paper in his hand. "Simple, direct, addresses the main concerns without inviting further questions."

"You actually think they'll stick to softball questions?" I raised an eyebrow. "These people smell blood in the water."

Roman's jaw tightened. "Let me handle the difficult ones."

"I don't need you to protect me." The words came out sharper than intended.