The first attack came where they didn’t expect it.
Not through the board.
Not through the press.
Through family services.
Mara opened the door on a Tuesday afternoon to find a woman on the threshold with a clipboard and a neutral smile.
“Ms. Leoni?” she asked.
Mara’s stomach dropped.
“Yes,” she said slowly.
“I’m Karen Mills,” the woman said. “From Child Protective Services. We received a report and need to follow up.”
The world narrowed.
Hallie, at the kitchen table behind her, looked up from her coloring book.
“Mom?” she asked. “Who is it?”
“Just…someone from the city,” Mara said, forcing her voice not to shake. “Go finish your drawing, okay?”
Hallie frowned but obeyed.
Mara stepped outside, pulling the door mostly closed behind her, leaving just enough of a crack to hear if Hallie moved.
“A report,” she repeated. “From who? About what?”
“I can’t disclose the source,” Karen said. “But the report expressed concern about your household. Possible neglect. Inappropriate exposure. Instability.”
Anger surged, hot and blinding.
“Exposure,” she echoed. “You mean the articles. The videos. The headlines *other people* are putting out.”
“I’m just here to gather information,” Karen said, voice practiced, soothing. “We take all reports seriously. We’d like to do a home visit. Talk to you. To Hallie. To your husband.”
Mara’s hands curled into fists.
“Do you investigate every family who has their photo in the paper?” she demanded. “Or just the poor girls who marry up?”
Karen didn’t flinch.
“We investigate every report,” she said. “Regardless of income. Or press coverage.”
Mara believed that as much as she believed Dahlia sent the wedding gift she’d promised.
“Fine,” she said tightly. “Come in. But you’ll need to make it quick. I have to pick my daughter up from school.”
Karen blinked. “She’s not here?” she asked.
“She’s at Lakeside Academy,” Mara said. “On a scholarship. Because we work hard. Because she deserves it.”
“Of course,” Karen murmured.
She stepped inside.
The apartment was…nice.
Not ostentatious, but clearly expensive. Big windows. Good furniture. Hallie’s drawings on the fridge. Toys in a neat basket in the corner.
Not the scene of neglect.
Karen took it in, scribbling in her notebook.
“How long have you been married?” she asked.
“Two weeks,” Mara said. “We’ve been living together longer.”
“And before that?”
“Hostel,” Mara said. “Diner. Night shifts. A woman down the hall who smoked too much and pretended not to care when my daughter cried.”
Karen nodded slowly.
“And Hallie’s father?” she asked. “Biological.”
Mara’s jaw tightened.
“Here,” she said. “Now. Present.”
“Was he…present before?” Karen asked, pen hovering.
“No,” Mara said. “Not at first. We…didn’t know. Things were…complicated.”
“Do you feel safe?” Karen asked suddenly.
The question knocked the wind out of her.
Mara blinked.
“What?” she demanded.
“In this home,” Karen clarified. “With your husband. Do you feel safe? Is there any…pressure? Coercion?”
Mara almost laughed.
Of all the things Liam was, coercive was not one.
“I feel…safer than I ever have,” she said honestly. “And also more exposed. But that’s not because of him. That’s because people who hate me keep trying to use his name as a weapon.”
Karen studied her.
“Would you be willing to put that in writing?” she asked. “Your feeling of safety. Your satisfaction with the current situation.”
“You’re already here,” Mara said. “What’s a little more paperwork.”
They sat at the table.
Karen asked questions.
About routines. School. Discipline. Money.
Mara answered.
Steadily. Clearly.
She’d lived under suspicion before. Liana’s gaze had been worse than this stranger’s.
When Liam came home—earlier than usual, brow furrowed—he paused at the sight of Karen’s ID badge.
“Mara?” he asked sharply.
She stood.
“CPS,” she said. “Someone made a report.”
His face hardened.
“On what grounds?” he asked Karen, voice clipped.
“I can’t disclose—” she began.
“Can you spell ‘harassment lawsuit’?” he cut in. “Because that’s what you’re about to walk into if this is based on tabloid speculation and anonymous spite.”
“Liam,” Mara said quietly. “Let her finish.”
He glanced at her.
Her calm steadied him.
He sat.
Answered questions.
Talked about school pickups and bedtime stories and how many times he’d read the same picture book in the past week.
Karen wrote.
At the end, she closed her notebook.
“I don’t see immediate cause for concern,” she said. “Your daughter seems cared for. Engaged. Attached. This appears to be a case of…malicious reporting.”
“Can you do anything about that?” Mara asked. “About people using your system as a weapon?”
“We can note the misuse,” Karen said. “If the same source continues to file unfounded reports, there are consequences. But I can’t promise they’ll stop trying.”
“Of course,” Mara murmured.
Karen stood.
“You seem like good parents,” she said. “Don’t let this scare you into…shrinking your lives.”
“It won’t,” Mara said, more confidently than she felt.
After she left, Liam paced the living room like a caged thing.
“That’s it,” he snapped. “I’m done letting them play games. Liana. Dahlia. Kane. CPS visits? That’s a new line.”
“Which one do you think called?” Mara asked. “Dahlia? Liana? Both?”
“Probably Dahlia,” he said grimly. “Liana prefers more…refined daggers. Dahlia likes muck.”
“Either way,” Mara said, sinking onto the couch, suddenly exhausted, “they’re showing us their limits. Or lack thereof.”
He stopped.
Looked at her.
Then crossed the room in three strides and knelt in front of her.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“For what?” she asked.
“For dragging you into this,” he said. “For putting a target on you and Hallie.”
She cupped his face, surprising herself.
“You didn’t drag me,” she said. “I walked. Eyes open. Maybe not clear. But open. And I had a target long before you. This just…changed the size.”
He leaned into her touch.
“You keep…choosing me,” he murmured. “Even when it gets worse.”
She smiled, small and fierce.
“Remind me to renegotiate my contract,” she said. “Add ‘hazard pay.’”
He laughed once, rough.
“Done,” he said.
He tilted his head, pressing a kiss into her palm.
Heat fluttered low in her belly.
They’d been careful, those first days after the wedding.
Not abstinent.
Just…gentle.
Feeling their way through new territory.
Now, with adrenaline still burning off, with fear and anger humming under her skin, she wanted—unexpectedly—to claim something back.
Control. Pleasure. Him.
She slid her hand into his hair.
“Liam,” she said.
He looked up.
Saw the shift in her.
His pupils darkened.
“Mara,” he said, voice rough.
“Take me to bed,” she said. “Before someone else knocks on our door.”
His answering grin was quick and feral.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
They stood.
Went.
Outside, the city spun.
Inside, in the eye of the newest storm, they held on to each other.
Because sometimes, the only way to survive was to carve out small islands of joy between the waves.
And love, they were learning, was less a fairy tale than a stubborn, daily choice.
One they were still, in spite of everything, choosing.
Again.
And again.
And again.