Chapter 8
Fame arrived quietly.
That was its first cruelty — not with cameras or shouting crowds, but with a single photograph uploaded to a trade publication no one outside certain circles paid attention to, a carefully framed image of Jessica standing in a field of flowering manuka, sunlight caught in her hair, a jar of honey cradled in her hands as though it were something sacred rather than commercial.
MANUKA DADDY: THE FUTURE OF PROTECTION, the headline read.
By nightfall, the image had been shared thousands of times.
By morning, it had been analyzed.
Jessica felt it like a physical pressure, a tightening around her ribs, as though the world had leaned in closer, curious and hungry, and when she stepped outside the processing building that day, she did so with the acute awareness that she was no longer just a girl hiding in a remote corner of New Zealand.
She was a symbol.
Joshua watched her from a distance, leaning against the railing that overlooked the valley, his expression unreadable, and she wondered — not for the first time — whether he regretted the choice he had made, whether the cost was already too heavy, whether she was becoming something he would one day mourn rather than love.
The thought hurt more than she expected.
That night, the valley lay hushed beneath a moon so bright it painted the fields silver, and when Jessica finally retreated to the caravan, exhaustion settled into her bones like lead, the kind of weariness that came not from physical labor but from holding yourself upright under the weight of becoming.
She had just kicked off her boots when she heard the knock.
Joshua did not wait for her to answer.
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with deliberate care, and for a moment they simply stood there, the small space suddenly charged with everything they had been holding back since dawn.
“You didn’t come find me,” he said quietly.
Jessica crossed her arms, more to keep herself together than for warmth. “I didn’t know if I was allowed to.”
Joshua frowned. “Allowed by who?”
She laughed softly, bitterly. “By the version of you who traded your life for mine.”
The words hung between them, sharp and unfair, and Joshua’s face tightened.
“I didn’t trade my life,” he said. “I chose it.”
Jessica shook her head. “You chose me,” she said. “And I don’t know how to live with that yet.”
Joshua took a step closer. “Then let me help you learn.”
His voice was low, steady, threaded with something that made her breath catch, and when he reached for her, he did so slowly, his hand hovering just shy of her waist, a silent question she answered by leaning into him.
The kiss that followed was not tentative like their first, nor desperate like the second.
It was deep.
Anchoring.
A claiming that went both ways.
Joshua’s hands slid up her back, firm and warm, and Jessica felt herself soften against him, the tension of the day melting into something achingly human, something that reminded her
she was not just an emblem or a bargaining chip, but a woman who wanted and was wanted in return.
They moved together without urgency, shedding the day piece by piece — boots, jackets, the sharp edges of responsibility — until they were left with only each other and the hum of the night pressing close.
Joshua kissed her throat, her shoulder, the hollow beneath her collarbone, each touch reverent, as though he were memorizing her in case the world tried to take her away again, and when she pulled him down onto the narrow bed, her hands fisting in his shirt, she felt a fierce, grounding certainty take hold.
This, at least, was real.
Afterward, wrapped together in the thin blanket, Jessica traced slow, absent lines across Joshua’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart, and for the first time since the photograph went live, she felt safe enough to breathe.
“I don’t want to disappear into this,” she said softly. “I don’t want to become a story someone else tells about me.”
Joshua pressed his lips to her hair. “Then don’t,” he said. “Write it yourself.”
She tilted her head, looking up at him. “You make it sound simple.”
He smiled faintly. “Power never is,” he said. “But it can be honest.”
Silence settled between them again, deeper now, more intimate, and Jessica let herself imagine — just briefly — a future where honey was only honey, where love did not come with conditions, where the land did not demand payment in blood.
The knock shattered the moment.
Hard.
Urgent.
Joshua was on his feet instantly, pulling on his jeans, his expression darkening, and when he opened the door, Margaret stood outside, her face grave.
“They’ve moved,” she said without preamble.
Jessica sat up, the remnants of warmth evaporating.
“Who?” she asked.
Margaret’s gaze flicked to her, something like respect passing between them now. “Everyone,” she said. “Competitors. Governments. People who didn’t know Manuka Daddy existed until yesterday.”
She stepped inside, lowering her voice.
“And there’s more,” she added. “The man from the black car is no longer acting alone.”
Jessica felt a chill creep up her spine. “What does that mean?”
Margaret hesitated — just long enough to make the truth land harder.
“It means,” she said carefully, “that your father’s original contract has been activated.”
Joshua stiffened. “Activated how?”
Margaret met Jessica’s eyes.
“They’re sending someone,” she said. “Not to threaten. Not to negotiate.”
Jessica’s breath caught. “Then why?”
Margaret’s voice dropped.
“To collect.”
Outside, far beyond the hills, engines hummed to life, moving steadily toward the valley, while Jessica understood with terrifying clarity that intimacy had been a luxury.
From now on, every touch, every kiss, every moment of softness would exist under siege.
And the greatest twist of all settled into her bones like a prophecy:
She was no longer being protected.
She was being prepared.
