Chapter 70

The countdown ticked down in the corner of the screen.

Five. Four. Three. Two—

And then they were live.

It didn't feel real—not in the bright, polished, performative way that live broadcasts usually did. There were no studio lights glaring overhead, no sleek microphones clipped to tailored lapels, no branded banners or sterile talking points rehearsed until numb. Just four people on a couch in a penthouse that still smelled faintly like espresso and lavender baby shampoo, bathed in the warm spill of floor lamps and the faint amber glow of Seoul filtering through the windows behind them.

The camera was Chan's tablet—angled carefully on a stack of hardcovers and old Golden Stag field manuals. No lighting crew. No moderators. Just a single screen, a single lens, and the low hum of live comments beginning to blur into motion.

Beth sat stiff as stone.

Alex was to her left, cross-legged and barefoot in high-waisted leggings and a fitted gray tee, the diamond on her ring catching the light every time she moved. Her posture was deceptively relaxed, one hand resting on Chan's knee, the other resting lightly in her lap. Chan looked impossibly calm—steady, composed, spine straight, shoulders squared. If he was nervous, it didn't show. He radiated the kind of quiet, intentional stillness that only came from knowing exactly who you were and why you'd chosen to be here.

His voice broke the silence first.

"Hey, STAY," he said, softly.

Not flashy. Not forced. Just... gentle. Real.

Beth's breath caught behind her ribs.

"We know a lot of you have questions," Chan continued. "About what happened last night. About the crash. About the airport. About... everything."

He didn't rush the words. He let them sit there, unpolished and steady, like he wasn't afraid of their weight.

Alex nodded slowly, gaze fixed on the camera. "We debated how to handle this. We could've stayed quiet. Let the company draft something and hope the press didn't twist it. But that's never really been us, has it?"

Her voice didn't waver. It didn't tremble. It just carried forward—measured, deliberate.

"You've been with us through so much. You've seen us in good times, hard times, stupid times. You deserve the truth. From us. Not from a headline."

Then Alex glanced to her right.

To Beth.

Beth felt it before she saw it—the shift in the air, subtle but seismic. Like a current had turned beneath the surface. Her body responded before her brain caught up. Her spine pulled taut despite the sling, the bruised tendons in her shoulder sparking with tension. The muscles beneath her skin ached with effort as she forced herself upright, her bones protesting the weight of being seen.

She registered Changbin's hand before anything else—the subtle twitch in his fingers where they curled together on his knee, the way his knuckles whitened slightly with pressure. He wasn't touching her, not yet, but his presence had weight, and right now it pressed into her like a shield she wasn't sure she deserved.

Her throat felt thick, clogged with everything she hadn't been able to say out loud. The kind of heaviness that made it hard to swallow. Hard to breathe. Hard to be.

She knew what she looked like. Had thought about it—maybe too much—while getting dressed. Had stared at her reflection and catalogued every bruise, every shadow, every trace of the last forty-eight hours stamped across her skin like evidence.

The oversized cream sweater clung slightly to one side, slipping at the collar where her navy sling disrupted the fabric. The sling itself was barely visible unless you looked closely, but she could feel it—tight and awkward, the strap digging faintly against her collarbone. Her hair was damp where it had dried unevenly at the ends, strands curling at her neck like they didn't know which direction to go. She wore no makeup. No armor. Just herself, washed and raw.

And tired.

So goddamn tired.

Not in the way that sleep could fix. But in the way grief lived in your bones. In the way vigilance became habit.

Next to her, Changbin sat quiet and still, his body anchored forward. His elbows were braced on his thighs, hands clasped tightly together like a prayer he hadn't yet spoken. His jaw was set—hard, deliberate—and his eyes never left her. Not once. Not during Alex's intro. Not as the silence stretched. He was watching her like she was a fuse already lit, and all he could do was be there when it burned down.

Alex's voice shifted—less formal now, more deliberate. Gentler. But firm.

"So... this is Beth Anders," she said. "You've seen her name in headlines today, but a lot of you have known her for longer than that. She's one of the co-founders of Golden Stag. A U.S. Army veteran. A mother."

Alex paused. Just for a breath. Then: "And a survivor."

That word landed like a stone dropped into Beth's lap.

Survivor.

It settled there, unmoving. Not accusatory. Not cruel. Just heavy. Like it knew what it meant to be spoken aloud. Like it dared her to flinch.

She didn't.

But she didn't look away from it either.

Her lungs pulled tight. Her ribs barely expanded.

Then she exhaled, slow and measured, and leaned forward toward the microphone. The motion tugged at her shoulder, not enough to hurt—but enough to remind her. Her good hand braced on her thigh, fingers spreading to steady herself. Her palm felt clammy. She hoped the camera wouldn't catch the way it trembled.

"My name is Beth," she said.

The sound of her own voice startled her. It sounded lower than usual. Worn down at the edges. But steady. Solid. Hers.

"And yesterday," she continued, "my ex-husband tried to kidnap my daughter."

The words were brutal, but true. There was no way to soften them. No way to make them palatable. They were what they were.

"He broke into my home," she said, her voice tightening around the memory, "assaulted our nanny, stole Cassie's passport, and tried to take her out of the country. He almost succeeded."

Her breath caught for just a moment—half of a hitch, just enough to make her throat burn—but she didn't stop.

"I dislocated my shoulder in a motorcycle accident earlier that night," she added. "I had just come back from the ER when we realized Cassie was gone."

She paused. Not for drama. Just to breathe.

"We found him at the airport."

The memory hit like a flash—glass, metal, motion. Gate 17. The panic. The scream.

"I—" Beth's voice cracked, and she swallowed it down. "I tackled him. And when he attacked me, Changbin pulled him off."

Her hand, the one still curled tight on her thigh, flexed once. And then she felt it—warmth.

Changbin's fingers, slow and certain, sliding over hers.

He didn't say a word.

Just took her hand in his, cradling it gently like it was the most natural thing in the world. Their palms met. Their fingers laced. Her good hand resting on her thigh, his grounding hers like an anchor.

"She's not my biological daughter," Changbin continued. "But Cassie called me Appa. Daddy. In front of everyone. And I need you to understand—" his voice thickened, almost broke, "—that moment wasn't planned. It wasn't staged. She said it because she meant it."

Beth's fingers tightened in Changbin's as she leaned forward, gaze locked onto the small lens of the camera. She could see her reflection in the glass—eyes shadowed with exhaustion, cheek still faintly bruised, lips pale but steady. Her voice, when it came, was not loud. It didn't need to be. It was clear. Grounded. Earned.

"And she meant it," she said, her voice low but firm. "She called him Daddy because he's been her father. Every day. Quietly. Patiently. With more love than I ever thought a child could be given by someone who didn't share her blood."

Her chest rose and fell slowly, the weight of the truth easing something inside her ribcage, even as the words scraped through her throat.

"What you saw at the airport wasn't a PR moment. It wasn't a headline waiting to happen. It wasn't drama, or scandal, or some calculated reveal. It was a rescue. It was our daughter—our daughter—crying for help. And it was us answering her."

The room had gone still. Not silent, not really—Alex's foot tapped gently beneath the coffee table, and Chan's thumb rubbed absentmindedly along the inside of her wrist—but the emotional air had thickened. The weight of it sat in the quiet like fog. Heavy. Honest.

Chan leaned forward now, shoulders squared, voice calm but iron-laced. "For those of you asking about the crash—yes. Beth and Changbin were on the bike. It was raining. They hit a curve too fast and went down. Beth was hurt."

His voice faltered for just a beat. Barely noticeable, unless you knew him. Unless you'd seen him pull his fiancée off a freeway shoulder with blood on her hands and panic in her throat.

"She was in pain," Chan continued, more quietly now. "And still—still—she got up. She went home. She realized her daughter was gone. And she didn't stop. Not even then."

He exhaled, gaze steady on the camera.

"Alex and I were the ones who found them after the crash. She relocated Beth's shoulder right there on the pavement. And then we went straight to the airport. All of that happened in a matter of hours. That's how fast it moved."

Alex's voice cut in then—precise, sharp, unapologetically fierce. Her spine was straight, her hands clasped lightly in her lap, but her tone left no room for misinterpretation.

"To those calling this a scandal—stop. Right now. This isn't fanfiction. It's not gossip. It's not some forbidden love plotline to dissect for clicks or drama."

Her voice didn't rise. It didn't need to.

"This is a woman who shielded her child with her body. Who didn't flinch when a man twice her size dragged her to the ground. Who didn't hesitate when he lunged again. This is a man—" she gestured slightly toward Changbin "—who ran toward the danger. Who tackled her attacker. Who held her and her child in the aftermath. Who stayed."

Her voice cracked on that last word, but she didn't back off.

"This is a family."

They let it sit.

For a moment, even the scrolling flood of comments slowed—paused in that rare, impossible breath between chaos and comprehension. A beat of silence stretched long and taut between all four of them. No one filled it. No one rushed to smooth it over.

And then Beth leaned forward again.

"If you've supported us—thank you," she said softly. "If you're confused, I get it. If you're angry... that's okay. I know this wasn't easy to watch. I know it was messy. Public. Scary. But if you're going to direct that anger somewhere, please—don't aim it at my daughter. Don't aim it at the people who saved her."

Her hand was shaking.

Not violently—just a subtle, persistent tremor that made her fingertips flutter slightly where they rested on the slope of her thigh. She didn't bother hiding it. There was no point. Not tonight. Not after everything.

She curled her fingers lightly into the fabric of her sweater, grounding herself in the texture, the pressure, the present moment. The words she spoke came slow but steady, carved carefully from the storm that had lived in her chest for days.

"If you need someone to blame..." Her voice faltered, just for a breath, then came back stronger. "Then blame the man who tried to take her. Not the man who brought her home."

The silence that followed was weighted. Full.

She didn't need to look to know that Changbin's hand was still wrapped gently around hers—his thumb rubbing a soft, slow arc across the side of her palm like he was memorizing the shape of it. He didn't look at the camera. He didn't need to.

When he spoke, his voice was barely louder than a whisper. But it was solid. Grounded. Made of iron and tenderness.

"And for what it's worth," he said, the words etched with quiet conviction, "I'm not leaving. Not because I'm in love. Not because I'm famous. But because Cassie called me Daddy."

He exhaled, breath hitching just slightly. Beth felt it through their joined hands, the same way she felt the weight of the moment settle between her ribs.

"I heard her," he continued. "I felt it. And I will never let her down."

Beth's heart twisted. Not in panic this time. Not in fear.

This was different.

Heavier.

Sacred.

The kind of weight you welcomed. The kind you held close.

Her throat threatened to close again, but not from sorrow. It was the ache of recognition. Of being loved in real time.

Beside her, Alex reached for a tissue with one hand, dabbing quickly at the corner of her eye, the motion so subtle it might have gone unnoticed if Beth hadn't known her so well. Chan didn't speak—just placed a steady hand on Alex's knee, his thumb brushing a slow rhythm across her leggings like he'd done it a hundred times.

Beth forced herself to breathe.

In.

Hold.

Out.

She cleared her throat, steadying herself as best she could.

When she spoke again, her voice shook—but she didn't let it break.

"We're going to keep living our lives," she said, the words measured, her spine straight. "Cassie is safe. Henry is in custody. The legal process is moving. And we're choosing to focus on what matters now—on healing. On family. On love."

Her pulse slowed as she spoke, the syllables shaping the space around her like armor she hadn't realized she needed. Beside her, Alex nodded—cheeks flushed, eyes bright, but her gaze steady.

"You're going to see headlines," Alex said, picking up seamlessly. "You're going to see edits, hot takes, people speculating. You'll hear a hundred different versions of what happened. But this—" her hand gestured to the screen, to the four of them crowded onto one couch like a makeshift anchor in the storm, "—what you saw yesterday? That was real. And we don't regret any of it."

Chan leaned a little closer to the camera, his voice soft but sure. "Thank you for listening. Thank you for holding space for us. We love you, STAY."

"And we'll see you soon," Alex added, her voice warmer now, laced with that kind of weariness that only came after holding your breath for too long.

Beth hesitated.

The moment felt finished. Complete. The silence that followed was natural, gentle. She could have let it stand.

But then she thought of Cassie.

Of her baby's face lit by tablet glow. Her voice calling Daddy in a terminal full of strangers. The way her tiny body had clung to Beth in the aftermath, like she was the only home left in the world.

And she knew she couldn't end the livestream without saying this.

So she leaned forward, just slightly, and looked directly at the lens.

"And if you see Cassie's face online..." Her voice was softer now. Not cracked—but careful. Like each word was being weighed before it left her mouth. "Remember that she's five years old. She's just a little girl. And she's watching."

She drew in a breath, not too deep, not too sharp.

"So please," she said, finishing the thought like it was a prayer. "Show her what kindness looks like."

No one spoke after that.

There was nothing else to say.

No flashy sign-off. No rehearsed slogan. No bow.

Just silence.

And then Beth exhaled—long and low and quiet—feeling the tremble finally leave her lungs as Changbin's arm slid around her shoulders, slow and certain. His palm settled against the curve of her neck, his thumb stroking the edge of her collarbone in soft, absent circles. She leaned into him without hesitation. Her body found his automatically, like gravity had always pointed her in his direction.

Across the couch, Alex curled into Chan's side. Her eyes closed for just a second, her breathing slowing to match his. One of their hands remained linked across Alex's thigh—strong, grounded, intertwined.

Somewhere down the hall, Cassie was asleep. Unaware. Dreaming. Curled around a turtle plushie and wrapped in blankets that still smelled like home.

She didn't know that millions of people had just heard her story.

Didn't know what it meant.

Didn't need to.

The livestream ended.

The screen blinked black.

The story was out now.

But for the first time, Beth didn't feel afraid.

Because it wasn't just a headline.

It was theirs.