Chapter 4

Kenya Later that night...

I walked into my living room in Greenwich Village and flicked on the lights. I dropped my house keys on the sideboard and sank onto the grey sofa, feeling the weight of the day's rehearsals. Tired and hungry, I eventually forced myself to the kitchen to warm some dinner before heading to the shower.

As the warm water cascaded over me, my thoughts drifted back to Mr. Ruthford. I wondered why society demanded such perfection from public figures. Here was a man who was successful and hardworking, yet he was being criticized for his personal life. It reminded me of my own struggles with the opinions of others.

Stepping out of the shower, I dried off and put on a comfortable black silk nightshift. I sat on the sofa with my meal—chicken and quinoa—trying to relax. But the peace was short-lived. My phone rang, and the screen flashed with a name I didn't want to see: Hank.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I reluctantly answered. "Hank? Why are you calling? You were told to stay away."

"Kenya, we need to talk," he said, his voice bringing back the fear of that night at the theater.

"There is nothing left to say, Hank. You hurt me, and you were clear about how you felt." Tears began to blur my vision. The memory of his anger and the way he had treated me felt like a fresh wound.

Just then, a knock sounded at my door. "I have to go, Hank. Someone is here," I said and hung up, wiping my eyes. I checked my reflection, trying to hide my distress, and opened the door.

My breath caught. Standing there, tall and striking in the hallway light, was Levi Ruthford. He looked less formal than on TV—his tie was gone, and his hair was slightly tousled, giving him a rugged but decent appeal.

"Hello, Kenya," he greeted softly. "A surprise, I hope? Did I come at a bad time?"

He looked into my eyes, and I could see genuine concern etched on his face. I looked away quickly, trying to hide the fact that I had been crying.