Page 132 of Sweet Distraction

Because if this gets worse, if they come for her harder than we can protect her, I need to be strong enough to carry us all.

“Promise me, Wills.”

She just buries her head into the crook of my neck and holds on instead.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Willow

The courtroom feels colder than I expected.

Cold in the amount of people staring at me with impassive looks. Cold in the way every shuffle, breath, and movement echoes too loud in my ears. Cold in this dark wood, dimly lit room with its hard seats that feel anything but welcoming.

I sit stiffly in the witness chair, palms flat against my thighs, spine stiff, and heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my fingers. The gallery is full of reporters and strangers and people with notepads pretending they’re here for a headline.

Flashes went off as I entered the courthouse.

Cameras may be banned inside, but that hasn’t stopped the damage. My name’s already smeared across every tabloid. Each headline twisting the story to outdo the next so theirs is the one that goes viral. “Nanny Scandal.” “Sleeping Her Way To a Fortune.” “The Rock Star Buys Her Off with Sex.”

Their salacious nature is ridiculous, and yet people are talking, are commenting on the posts, and then sharing them to feed this beast.

And to ruin my reputation.

It’s been an overwhelming turn of events I never anticipated. Me, being the bad guy in all of this. Me, possibly being the reason Rocket wouldn’t get custody of Poppy. I’ve never had my integrity questioned more than I have in the last twenty-four hours, and it’s been disheartening, overwhelming, and terrifying.

Rocket has tried to shield me from it, but it’s about as effective as standing in front of a freight train. It’s impossible to stop.

But I’m a big girl, and he has way more important things to focus on than protecting me. Like making sure he maintains his cool during these proceedings and proving the Whitmore’s claims that he’s a hothead fueled by hard partying, recreational drug use, and a hectic lifestyle to be wrong. And while he is a multimillionaire with what I presume is an impressive set of lawyers, they have grief on their side.

And grief is a powerful drug that feeds every other emotion.

My hands tremble, and I brace them on my thighs as the procedural silence in the courtroom continues.

It takes everything I have not to look at Rocket. I know if I do, I might lose what little composure I’ve scraped together.

And yet, I sneak a glance at the courtroom gallery and am startled to see Gizmo sans Hendrix, who is watching Poppy for us, Vince and Bristol, and Hawkin and Quinlan, all sitting behind Rocket like a phalanx to protect him and show unity.

My chest constricts at the sight. At knowing they’re trying to show that Rocket has his own loving and supportive family who’ll help him when and if he needs it.

I begged my parents not to come—not wanting to subject them to this circus—and I’m grateful that, despite putting up a fight, they did as I asked.

My eyes shift to Rocket now. He’s sitting—stone-faced, beautiful, devastated—beside Sandra. His jaw is set, and his hands fist on the table, like he’s holding himself back from getting up and dragging me out of here.

I don’t belong here—in this courtroom or in this narrative. And yet I’m here.

Because of Poppy.

Because in taking this job, I made a promise to protect her. To do what’s best for her. And this is doing just that.

The judge calls the room back to order. Olivia’s parents are seated across the aisle with stoic expressions and stiff postures, and dressed in dark colors.

I take a breath and go through the motions. I swear to tell the truth, but I don’t even hear my own voice anymore. Instead, I focus on the court reporter’s fingers clicking on her keys.

Sandra moves to the well of the court and stands in its center. “Ms. Adams, can you describe your role in Poppy’s life?”

“I’m her nanny.”

“And when were you employed and by whom?”