Chapter 240: The Left Side
Franz told her at breakfast. They weren’t leaving today — the trip to Gilbert’s property could wait. She needed real rest, not a few hours before another airport.
"We’re leaving Monday," he said. "Take the weekend."
Arianne was across from him at the kitchen table. Her coffee was untouched, her eyes carrying a weight that one night’s sleep hadn’t touched. She didn’t argue. Just gave a small nod, the kind that barely moved.
Lily’s spoon clinked against her bowl. "I want to see the northern lights."
"You will. Monday."
"That’s three more days."
"Today is Friday. It doesn’t count." Franz reached for his cup. "The day’s already started."
"It counts if I want it to count." Lily held up her fingers, starting at her thumb. "Saturday. Sunday. Monday. Three days."
"Friday’s already started. That’s different from a whole day."
"It counts," she said, with the specific certainty of someone who has decided the argument is already won.
He looked at her. She had Alex’s jaw and her own particular brand of stubbornness. "Monday," he said, and left it there.
Lily crossed her arms. She didn’t push further, which meant she was saving it.
Leo was at the end of the table, his cereal going soft in the bowl. The whale sat beside his glass of juice. He looked at Franz, then at Arianne, then back at his spoon. He didn’t type anything. He just kept eating.
* * *
Franz dressed in black jeans and a dark sweater. He put on a cap, left the mask on the dresser. Too many photos were already out there — too many people who knew the shape of his jaw, the way he moved. The mask was performance at this point. He picked up his keys and went downstairs.
Arianne was on the sitting room, reading a report. She’d stopped halfway and to look at him. Her hair was still loose, shorter than he kept forgetting, and she hadn’t brushed it yet.
"I’m going to Daryll’s office," he said. "This is going to take all day. Probably."
She looked at him. "The twins will be fine. Aunt Estella’s here."
"I know." He turned his keys over in his hand. "I’ll be back late."
She nodded.
He left.
* * *
Daryll’s office was on the tenth floor, all glass walls and a view of the city going gray under winter sky. Monica was already there when Franz arrived, laptop open, notebook on the table, three pens lined up beside it like she’d organized them as a way of organizing herself. She looked tired but focused.
Franz sat down. Didn’t take off his jacket.
Daryll turned his laptop around. The screen was packed with headlines.
Noah Hart’s Airport Rescue: Actor Protects Mystery Woman from Crowd.
Noah Hart Doesn’t Need Words. His Actions Say Everything.
Who Is Arianne Summers?
The Woman Who Captured Noah Hart’s Heart.
Franz read them without speaking. Daryll scrolled.
Noah Hart’s Dating History: Actor Never Confirmed Previous Relationships.
From Denials to Airport Hand-Holding: How Noah Hart Changed His Tune.
Noah Hart’s Mystery Woman: Why He Won’t Confirm (But Doesn’t Need To).
"The dating history articles aren’t doing damage," Monica said. "He never confirmed any of those relationships. No premieres, no public statements, no comments on rumors. The pattern holds. The only break in it is the airport photos — and even at the press conference, he didn’t confirm the relationship. He addressed the defamation."
"That distinction matters," Daryll said.
"It’s everything." Monica opened her notebook. "It gives us room."
Franz had already read the articles twice before coming in. He read them again now, looking for the angles that would turn, looking for the language that could be made into something sharper.
Mystery woman.Captured his heart.
They didn’t know anything. They were dressing guesses in certainty and calling it reporting.
They worked through the morning. Monica tracked sources. Daryll made calls to editors he’d known for fifteen years, the kind of calls that weren’t about threatening and weren’t quite about asking. Franz read comments until the words stopped parsing cleanly.
The public response was mostly positive. People were doing what they always did — deciding what something meant before anyone told them.
He didn’t say a word and still told everyone she’s his.The cap on her head. The hand-holding. The way he shielded her. That’s not PR.
Noah Hart has always been private. The fact that he did this in public means she’s different. He kept reading.
He never confirmed any of the other rumors. But he confirmed this one without opening his mouth.
Noah Hart is a class act. Miranda Kline is a mess.He didn’t mention Miranda by name. He didn’t have to. Everyone already knew.
The negative comments existed underneath all of it, a current. People who said he was hiding something. People who said Arianne was using him. Old photos getting passed around again — the engagement announcement, the party, Dominic’s face in frame. The speculation hadn’t died. It had just adjusted its shape.
Monica flagged several accounts in her notebook.
"Same IP patterns as before. What’s left of Miranda’s team, most likely."
Daryll shook his head. "They won’t stop completely."
Franz looked at the screen. "Then we make sure no one believes them."
By noon the news cycle had done what it always did — moved. The airport story was still circulating but had become something else in fan accounts. Screenshots, edits, threads. The tone was supportive in a way that was almost exhausting to look at directly.
Daryll leaned back in his chair. "The public likes you. They like the protectiveness. They like that you put the cap on her head and didn’t run from the cameras. The problem is that the more they like it, the more they want."
"What does that mean, practically."
"It means they’ll want her at events. Premieres. Red carpets. And when she isn’t there, they’ll want to know why. And wanting to know why means digging. The engagement. The ex. The company. All of it."
Franz was already aware of the machine. He’d been inside it for twelve years. He didn’t say anything.
"We don’t give them anything real," Monica said. "We let them speculate. We don’t feed it, we don’t deny what doesn’t need denying, we don’t confirm what we can’t walk back." She looked at Franz. "That’s the play for now."
He nodded.
The afternoon ran long. New stories came in, were sorted. Approved statements, denied interviews, no comment where no comment was the safest position. By evening the headlines had settled — lower, not gone, nothing was ever gone — but lower. The day had held. Barely.
Franz stood up. His back ached from hours in the same chair.
"Go home," Daryll said. "You look terrible."
"I know."
"Get some sleep. We’ll pick it up Monday."
Monica had already packed her laptop. "Nothing should break before then. Weekend cycle is slower."
Franz put on his jacket and walked out without looking back at the screen.
* * *
The drive home was forty minutes through a city that had decided to be fully alive on a Friday night — restaurants full, people on sidewalks, headlights and neon doing what they did. Franz didn’t register any of it. He drove.
The house was dark when he pulled in. No lights. Not even the foyer lamp Aunt Estella usually left on. He sat in the car for a moment while the engine ticked down, then got out.
Inside, the house had the particular hush of sleeping people — not empty, but held. He could feel the difference. He walked upstairs in the dark, hand on the railing, footsteps absorbed by the carpet runner.
The twins’ room was closed, no sound behind the door. He passed it. The bathroom, open and dark. The linen closet. He walked to the east wing and stopped outside Arianne’s door.
Closed. No light underneath.
He stood there. The wood was dark, the brass knob catching nothing. She was asleep. Or not in there at all.
He didn’t knock.
He stood a moment longer than made sense, then turned and walked back down the hall to the west wing. His room. The door he’d left closed this morning.
He opened it.
The curtains were drawn. The room was dark.
Arianne was in his bed.
She was on the left side — his left side, the side that had been cold for months. Curled inward, knees drawn up, hands tucked under her cheek. Her shorter hair spread across the pillow. Something soft and gray, a shirt. Feet bare. Her slippers on the floor beside the bed.
She was asleep.
Franz didn’t move. He stood in the doorway and looked at her and didn’t breathe.
The left side of his bed.
He closed the door. The latch caught with almost no sound. He went to the bathroom, turned on the light, blinked against it. The mirror gave him back someone who’d been in a conference room since morning — dark circles, pale, his hair a mess from running his hands through it all day. He washed his face. Brushed his teeth. Changed into sweatpants and a worn shirt, moving carefully, no noise. Nothing that would carry.
He turned off the light.
Back in the bedroom she hadn’t moved. He walked around to the right side — the side he never used, always empty — and lifted the blanket and got in. The mattress moved under his weight.
Arianne stirred.
She rolled toward him, eyes opening heavy and unfocused, blinking once before they found him in the dark.
"What took you so long?" she asked. Her voice was thick with sleep, low.
Franz looked at her. "Damage control," he said. "Can’t have you and the twins getting mobbed at the airport."
She didn’t say anything to that. Just looked at him.
He reached for her and drew her in. She was warm — hours of sleep in her — and she came without resistance. Her head dropped against his chest. Her hand rose and came to rest over his heart.
"You smell like stress," she said into his shirt.
"That’s not a smell."
"It is tonight."
The laugh came up through his chest before it reached his face, low and real, and she’d be feeling it too, her cheek against him.
"Go to sleep," he said.
"Already there," she said.
Her breathing evened out almost immediately. He put his arm around her waist and held her and looked at the ceiling in the dark.
Her hand was warm over his heart. Her hair against his chin smelled like her shampoo — the same one, but fresh now. Not the ghost of it that had been fading from his pillow. The real thing.
He closed his eyes.