Chapter Twelve: The Man with the Camera
Three Months Later
The wind was biting as Alora stepped out of the Phoenix Rising HQ in downtown Toronto. The newly rented office space — sleek, glass-framed, bustling with young writers and survivors — was a far cry from the shelter benches where she used to scribble in stolen notebooks.
Her phone buzzed. A reminder flashed:
> 11:00 a.m. — Interview w/ Elijah Kane (Documentary)
She groaned. She'd forgotten all about the meeting. PR had arranged it weeks ago. Something about a rising filmmaker doing a documentary on grassroots changemakers.
"Just give him thirty minutes of your time," her assistant had said.
"He's quiet, but legit. Won a few film festival awards. Nothing flashy."
Alora adjusted her coat and walked back inside. As she entered the media room, she nearly collided with a man setting up a tripod.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Dressed in worn jeans, a dark gray sweater, and a black beanie pulled low over thick, dark curls.
He looked up.
Their eyes locked.
For a second — just a flicker — the world slowed.
"Alora," he said. Voice low. Steady. American accent. "Thanks for meeting with me."
"Elijah Kane?" she replied, composing herself. "You're… earlier than I expected."
His lips curled slightly. "Early's better than late."
He extended a hand. His grip was firm — but not too tight. Grounded.
She noticed the ink on his wrist. A tattoo.
A phoenix. Wings mid-rise.
She raised an eyebrow. "That's an interesting choice."
"Got it after my sister died," he said casually. "Phoenixes don't just rise. They burn first."
That one sentence — raw and too honest — disarmed her.
They sat.
---
For the next hour, the camera rolled as Elijah asked questions no journalist had ever dared.
But it wasn't just what he asked — it was how he listened.
"Why do you think broken girls are drawn to you?"
"What scares you the most about success?"
"If you disappeared tomorrow, what would you want to be remembered for?"
She found herself answering things she hadn't told her closest friends.
And when he packed up, he didn't compliment her.
He simply looked at her for a beat too long and said, "You're more fire than fame. I hope they don't ruin that."
Then he left.
And Alora… felt something unfamiliar.
Intrigue.
Not lust. Not longing. But the sense that someone had seen her — not the figurehead, not the blog, but her.
---
Two Weeks Later
Elijah's documentary teaser dropped online.
Alora wasn't ready.
The clip opened with a slow-motion shot of her walking into the shelter she funded. Voiceover playing:
> "They told me my story didn't matter. But broken doesn't mean buried. Some of us are built from the ashes."
The video went viral in under 24 hours.
But so did something else.
A Reddit thread titled: "Alora Jordan — Fraud?"
Accusations.
Screenshots.
Claims that Phoenix Rising had misused donated funds.
Anonymous sources.
A voice note, distorted and anonymous, claiming: "She's not who you think she is."
Alora's phone exploded.
Her PR team scrambled.
Mama Ladi called in a panic.
And worst of all — the bank notified her that one of Phoenix Rising's accounts had been accessed… and nearly $40,000 was missing.
She didn't sleep that night.
At 3 a.m., she received a text.
Unknown Number:
> This is only the beginning. You should have stayed in the shadows.