Chapter 10
By the time I got back to my apartment, the campaign had already decided what my silence meant.
The post appeared under a photograph from the event: me near the exit, my face turned away from the woman who had arranged the meeting. Titus stood several feet behind me, one hand at his side, his expression unreadable. The caption called him “an outside manipulator who pressured Sophia into appearing and is now controlling the evidence.”
I read it twice without touching the screen.
Then I looked at Titus.
He had stopped just inside the doorway, exactly where we had agreed he would stop. He hadn’t followed me into the apartment after the event. He hadn’t reached for my arm, raised his voice, or asked me to explain myself before I was ready. Even now, he stood near the door with his keys in his hand.
“They’re saying you forced me to go,” I said.
His jaw tightened. “I know.”
“They’re saying you took my phone.”
“I know.”
“And that you’re keeping the original records from everyone.”
His eyes moved to my phone, then back to me. “Do you want me to answer?”
The question landed harder than anger would have. He was angry. I could see it in the way his thumb pressed against the edge of his keys. But he was waiting.
I set the phone facedown on the kitchen counter. “What would you say?”
“That it’s a lie.”
“That’s not enough.”
“No,” he said. “It isn’t.”
The apartment felt smaller than it had that morning. The refrigerator hummed behind me. Outside, a car passed over the wet street, tires whispering against the pavement.
Titus took one step toward the counter and stopped. “I can post the messages. The times we agreed on. The one where you told me to stay outside.”
“You can,” I said. “But if you answer before I do, they’ll use that too.”
His mouth flattened. “They’ll use anything.”
“I know.”
He looked at me for a long moment. “Then I’ll wait.”
The simple promise left me with nowhere to hide. Not from him. Not from the decision.
I picked up my phone again and opened the message thread between us. There it was: my instruction from before the event.
Stay where people can see you. Don't come in unless I ask. If I leave, let me leave alone.
Under it, Titus had written: I will.
He had followed it. Every part of it.
“I want that included,” I said.
“Only if you want it included.”
“I do.”
His shoulders lowered slightly, though the tension remained in his face. “Then we say exactly that. Nothing more.”
The local reporter, Lena Ortiz, had given me her number two days earlier. I called her before I could change my mind.
She answered on the fourth ring. “Sophia?”
“I need to send you something before you write about the post.”
“I’m listening.”
“The campaign is claiming Titus pressured me into attending and controlled the evidence. That isn’t true. I asked him to stay outside. He did.”
Lena was quiet for half a second. “Can you document that?”
“Yes.”
“Send me the message thread. Don’t send anything you don’t want published.”
“I know.”
“And Sophia,” she said, “if there’s private information in it, redact it yourself. Don’t rely on someone else to protect you.”
I glanced at Titus. He had moved to the far end of the kitchen, giving me space without leaving.
“I’ll send the relevant part.”
After we hung up, I copied the messages into a separate file. My hands shook once, then steadied. I included the timestamps, my instruction, and Titus’s reply. I left out everything personal that didn’t prove the point.
Before sending it, I wrote a short statement.
The claim that Titus pressured me into attending is false. I made my own decision to go. I asked him to remain outside unless I asked him to enter, and he followed that boundary. I am reviewing the campaign’s records and will share verified evidence, not speculation.
I read it aloud.
Titus didn’t interrupt.
“Does it sound like I’m defending you?” I asked.
“It sounds like you’re stating what happened.”
“That’s what I want.”
“Then send it.”
I did.
For nearly an hour, nothing changed. The post continued collecting comments, though the tone began to shift. People who had repeated the campaign’s wording started asking why the original video link had redirected twice that afternoon. Someone posted a screenshot showing a different landing page than the one still displayed in the campaign’s public caption.
Then Lena texted.
I found a technical record attached to the altered landing page. Can you talk?
I called immediately.
“What did you find?” I asked.
“A server log tied the version change to a campaign account,” Lena said. “Not a personal account. A staff-level campaign login.”
My stomach tightened. “Whose?”
“I’m not naming anyone yet.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“Good. Because access and timing aren’t the same as responsibility. The record shows which account submitted the change, not who was sitting at the keyboard.”
I looked toward the laptop on my table. The promotional link was still open there, its bright call to action unchanged, as if none of this had happened.
“What else do you have?”
“A timestamp. The altered page went live shortly after you refused the woman’s demand at the event.”
I closed my eyes.
Lena continued, “I’m sending you the technical record. Don’t post it yet. I want to verify the account’s permissions and whether someone else could have used it.”
“Send it.”
The file arrived a minute later. I opened it beside Titus. Neither of us spoke while we read.
The record showed the campaign domain, the page revision, and a staff account identifier. No name. No proof of who had used it. But the account had permission to edit the landing page, update the campaign caption, and access referral data.
Titus exhaled through his nose. “That’s more than one person’s job.”
“Or more than one person knew about.”
He looked at me, careful again. “Do you want me to leave?”
I studied the record until the letters blurred.
“No,” I said. “But don’t touch the file.”
“I won’t.”
“Don’t contact anyone from the campaign.”
“I won’t.”
“And don’t answer the post.”
His eyes held mine. “I won’t.”
I forwarded the record to Lena, then saved a copy to an offline drive. Outside, another notification lit up my phone. The smear was beginning to weaken, but the campaign had not lost control. It had only lost the clean version of its story.
The account identifier sat between us on the screen.
May you like
Whoever used it had access to more than the altered link.
And whoever granted that access might not have been working alone.
