The Woman Who Loved the Image<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Adrian Veyron heard the truth at 1:17 in the morning.
The penthouse was dark except for the thin blue glow bleeding in from the Manhattan skyline, striping the walls in cold light. He lay on his side, face turned toward the wall, breathing slowly beneath the blanket like a man already asleep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Cassandra thought he was asleep.
That was why she had slipped out of bed in her silk robe, barefoot, phone pressed to her ear, voice lowered into a whisper that still carried through the quiet hallway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At first, Adrian barely listened. He had become used to her late-night calls, her soft laughter, her little private performances for people who never saw the tiredness behind her eyes. Cassandra Leigh never really stopped being watched, even when there were no cameras around. She had spent too many years becoming the kind of woman people stared at.
But then he heard his own name.
And every part of him went still.
\u201cHonestly, it\u2019s pathetic,\u201d Cassandra whispered, her voice floating back from the hall. \u201cA man like him\u2026 stuck in a chair. I can\u2019t live like this forever.\u201d
For a moment, Adrian could not breathe.
He stared at the dark wall, eyes open, body frozen beneath the sheet.
A man like him.
Stuck in a chair.
The words did not sound angry. That would have been easier. They sounded bored. Irritated. Almost embarrassed, as if his suffering had become an inconvenience she was tired of politely carrying.
Cassandra gave a quiet laugh, the kind she used at parties when someone rich said something cruel and everyone pretended it was charming.
\u201cI\u2019m giving it a week,\u201d she added. \u201cMaybe two. Then I\u2019m done. I\u2019m not throwing my life away for\u2026 this.\u201d
This.
Not Adrian.
Not the man she had kissed in front of photographers. Not the man whose hand she had held while accepting compliments about her loyalty. Not the man she had called her future.
Just this.
A broken thing. A burden. A problem with wheels.
Adrian\u2019s hand tightened around the edge of the sheet until pain burned across his knuckles. He forced himself not to move. If Cassandra realized he was awake, she would stop. She would return to the version of herself the world adored: devoted, fragile, elegant, tragic in all the right ways.
But he needed to hear the rest.
He needed the truth without lighting, captions, or applause.
When the call finally ended, he heard the soft click of her slippers against the floor. She drifted back into the bedroom, slipped beneath the blanket, and turned away from him without touching his shoulder, without asking if he was comfortable, without checking whether he needed anything.
Her perfume settled into the sheets around him, expensive and clean.
For the first time, it smelled like a lie.
Cassandra fell asleep within minutes.
Adrian did not sleep at all.
He stared into the dark until his eyes burned, while one thought settled heavily in his chest.
She had never loved him.
She had loved what standing beside him gave her.
Two weeks earlier, Adrian Veyron had been the man every business magazine in New York wanted to photograph.
Thirty-two years old. Founder of one of the fastest-growing tech companies in the country. Brilliant, controlled, private, and rich enough that strangers felt entitled to call his success destiny. His penthouse overlooked the Hudson. His company was in the middle of a major acquisition. His calendar was so full that sleep often felt like something his assistant had forgotten to schedule.
Cassandra had fit perfectly into that life.
She was beautiful in the polished, almost unreal way luxury brands preferred\u2014long legs, flawless posture, camera-ready sorrow when needed, laughter bright enough to turn heads across a room. A former model turned influencer, she knew exactly where to stand, when to smile, and how to make affection look effortless in public.
With Cassandra beside him, Adrian looked less untouchable.
She softened him.
Or at least, that was how it appeared.
At galas, she leaned into his arm. At charity events, she looked up at him like he had personally rescued the world. In interviews, she called him \u201cthe most generous man I know.\u201d People loved that. Investors loved that. The public loved that.
But Adrian had started noticing the moments when no one was watching.
When he canceled a weekend in Aspen because of a board emergency, Cassandra smiled and said, \u201cOf course, babe,\u201d but her eyes cooled before she turned away.
When he caught a brutal fever and missed a gala, she went without him, posed beautifully on the red carpet, and posted a photo with the caption: So proud to support this cause tonight.
When he was exhausted, when he was quiet, when he was not useful as scenery, something in her seemed to dim.
The first crack came one evening after a dinner party. Adrian had gone into the study for a call and returned just in time to hear Cassandra speaking to a friend near the terrace.
\u201cHe\u2019s brilliant,\u201d she said. \u201cBut sometimes he\u2019s just not fun anymore.\u201d
Not tired.
Not overwhelmed.
Not human.
Just not fun.
The sentence stayed with him longer than it should have.
Then came the accident.
Or rather, the story of one.
Adrian did not crash badly enough to lose the use of his legs. There had been a minor incident, enough to make the lie possible, enough to keep questions from sounding absurd. A wet road. A sharp turn leaving the tunnel. A car door crushed badly enough to look frightening.
He told the people closest to him that doctors were uncertain about nerve damage in his lower back. He said he needed to use a wheelchair temporarily. He allowed fear to enter the room and watched what people did with it.
It was reckless.
He knew that.
It was also desperate.
Because somewhere beneath all his wealth, discipline, and power, Adrian was terrified that the woman sleeping beside him loved only the version of him that could stand under chandeliers and make other people jealous.
At first, Cassandra performed beautifully.
She cried beside his bed. She called him \u201cmy brave man.\u201d She stroked his hair whenever nurses entered the room. She posted a black-and-white photo of their hands intertwined with a caption about strength, patience, and unconditional love.
Half a million likes in less than an hour.
But performance has a short life when the audience leaves.
By the fourth day, Cassandra sighed when Adrian dropped his phone.
By the sixth, she asked the house manager to bring his medication because she \u201ccouldn\u2019t bear the medical stuff.\u201d
By the eighth, she had begun finding reasons to be away from the penthouse: meetings, content shoots, charity lunches, brand dinners, private fittings.
Each excuse was wrapped in softness.
Each one left him alone.
Adrian noticed everything.
He noticed the way Cassandra kissed his forehead only when someone else was in the room. He noticed how quickly her hand left his shoulder once a photo had been taken. He noticed her irritation when the wheelchair slowed them down, her embarrassment when people stared, her impatience when he needed help with something small.
He had designed a test to learn the truth.
But he had not prepared himself for how ugly truth could look when it arrived slowly.
Through all of it, only one person treated him as if nothing essential had changed.
Maribel Reyes had started working in the penthouse a month before the accident. She had come through an agency Adrian had used for years, quiet and punctual, with dark hair usually tied back, careful hands, and a calmness that did not feel practiced.
She was in her mid-twenties, from a small coastal town in Maine. She spoke softly, worked efficiently, and never tried to make herself important. In a home full of expensive objects and louder personalities, Maribel moved like someone who understood the value of not disturbing a room.
But she noticed everything.
When Cassandra forgot Adrian\u2019s medication, Maribel brought it without comment.
When his blanket slipped from his knees, she fixed it gently and stepped away before he could feel embarrassed.
When pain or shame made his temper sharp, she did not flinch. She simply waited until the moment passed, as if she understood that hurt often came out in the wrong direction.
Most importantly, she never pitied him.
That was what Adrian noticed most.
Cassandra\u2019s sympathy had always felt like a mirror turned toward herself. Maribel\u2019s kindness asked for nothing.
One afternoon, Cassandra swept into the living room wearing a white coat, oversized sunglasses, and the distracted expression of a woman already halfway out the door.
She bent, kissed Adrian\u2019s forehead in front of the staff, and said brightly, \u201cHow\u2019s my warrior?\u201d
Adrian looked up at her.
\u201cTired,\u201d he said.
Cassandra\u2019s smile did not change, but her eyes flicked toward her phone.
\u201cI have to run,\u201d she said. \u201cBrand dinner. It\u2019s important.\u201d
\u201cYou\u2019re leaving again?\u201d
The question came out quieter than he intended.
Cassandra paused. For one second, annoyance broke through the polished surface.
\u201cAdrian,\u201d she said carefully, \u201cyou\u2019re not alone. Maribel\u2019s here.\u201d
Then she touched his shoulder once, lightly, and walked away.
The door closed behind her.
The sentence stayed.
Maribel\u2019s here.
As if love could be delegated. As if presence was a chore that could be assigned to staff.
A few minutes later, Maribel placed a glass of water beside him.
\u201cWould you like me to open the window?\u201d she asked. \u201cThe air feels heavy.\u201d
Adrian looked at her.
She was not talking only about the air.
\u201cYes,\u201d he said.
Maribel crossed the room and cracked the window open. Cold wind moved through the penthouse, sharp and clean. It lifted the edge of the curtains and carried the distant sound of traffic into the silence.
For the first time that day, Adrian felt awake.
That night, Cassandra made the phone call.
And by morning, everything inside Adrian had gone strangely calm.
Cassandra came downstairs late, wrapped in another silk robe, her hair loose, her face already lit by her phone.
\u201cI\u2019m meeting friends for brunch,\u201d she said.
Adrian looked at her from his wheelchair.
\u201cYou\u2019re going out.\u201d
She sighed as if he had disappointed her by noticing.
\u201cI\u2019m not a nurse, Adrian.\u201d
The words fell between them.
No apology followed.
No softness.
No attempt to take them back.
Adrian watched her leave, and something inside him stopped begging for a different answer.
The breaking point came three nights later at Nate\u2019s birthday party.
Nate was one of Adrian\u2019s oldest friends, the kind of man who had been around before the money became impossible to count. His party was on a rooftop downtown, all glass railings, city lights, expensive liquor, and people pretending not to stare at Adrian\u2019s chair.
Cassandra had insisted they attend.
\u201cIt\u2019ll be good for your image,\u201d she said while fastening an earring in the mirror. \u201cPeople need to see you\u2019re still present.\u201d
Present.
The word sounded less like concern than strategy.
Maribel helped Adrian into his coat and guided his chair toward the elevator. Cassandra barely looked up from her phone.
At the party, the city glittered below them like something distant and untouchable. Music pulsed under the conversation. Glasses clinked. People leaned in too close and laughed too loudly. Every face carried the same careful expression when Adrian passed: sympathy mixed with discomfort, as if his chair had interrupted the evening\u2019s aesthetic.
Cassandra stayed beside him for nine minutes.
Then she disappeared.
At first, Adrian told himself she was networking. Cassandra had always worked a room instinctively. It was part of what made her useful in that world, part of what had once amused him.
Then he saw her near the bar.
She was laughing with a man Adrian did not recognize. Tall, clean-shaven, expensive suit, hand resting too comfortably near her waist. Cassandra tilted her head back, touched his arm, leaned close enough for a photographer near the terrace to notice.
Adrian sat alone near a corner table, his wheelchair positioned beside a heater that did not reach him.
One hour passed.
Then another.
Nobody was cruel to him directly. That would have been easier. Instead, people performed kindness and moved on. They asked how he was feeling, then glanced quickly away before he could answer honestly. They told him he looked strong. They said he was inspiring. They used words that turned his humiliation into something convenient for them.
Then Cassandra came back.
She was flushed from champagne and attention. A small group drifted with her toward the terrace, loose and laughing. She stood behind Adrian, close enough that he could smell the wine on her breath, and for a moment he thought she might finally touch his shoulder.
Instead, she laughed.
\u201cLook at him now,\u201d Cassandra said, light and careless. \u201cA shadow of the man he used to be.\u201d
The group went quiet for half a second.
Then someone chuckled.
Someone else murmured, \u201cCass\u2026\u201d in the weak tone people use when cruelty is uncomfortable but not enough to interrupt.
Adrian\u2019s hands tightened on the wheels of the chair.
Heat crawled up his neck.
He wanted to stand.
Not because he could.
Because every part of his pride screamed for it.
He wanted to rise in front of them, wanted to make Cassandra\u2019s face collapse, wanted to turn the entire rooftop silent. But beneath the fury was something heavier.
Grief.
The woman who had once held his hand in front of the world had just turned him into a punchline.
And then he felt a hand on the back of his chair.
Steady.
Calm.
Maribel.
She had not been invited to the party. She had come because she knew Cassandra would leave him alone. She stood behind him without drama, without accusation, without making herself the center of anything.
But her presence changed the air.
It said, quietly and unmistakably: enough.
Cassandra\u2019s laughter faltered. Her eyes narrowed.
\u201cWhy is she here?\u201d she hissed under her breath.
Maribel ignored her.
She leaned slightly toward Adrian and asked, \u201cWould you like to leave, sir?\u201d
No pity.
No panic.
Only choice.
For reasons Adrian could not explain, that nearly broke him.
\u201cYes,\u201d he said.
Maribel guided his chair toward the elevator.
Cassandra did not follow.
Adrian did not look back, but he knew she stayed. He could hear her voice blending back into the party before the elevator doors closed.
That was the moment he stopped wondering.
On the ride home, Manhattan blurred outside the car window in long streaks of white and gold. Adrian sat silent, the truth beside him like another passenger.
He had wanted certainty.
Now he had it.
And certainty felt nothing like victory.
The next morning, the penthouse was still.
Cassandra slept upstairs. Somewhere beyond the glass, the city moved as if nothing had changed. The kitchen clock ticked with cruel precision.
Adrian sat alone in his study, staring at the wheelchair.
For two weeks, it had been a prop, a trap, a symbol of weakness he had never truly possessed. But that morning, he understood something he had not wanted to face.
The chair had not imprisoned him.
Fear had.
Fear of being loved for the wrong reasons. Fear of being abandoned if he stopped being impressive. Fear that beneath the money, headlines, and polished surfaces, he might be easy to leave.
He pressed the intercom.
\u201cAsk Cassandra to come downstairs.\u201d
A few minutes later, she appeared in the doorway wearing a robe, one hand wrapped around a coffee cup, the other holding her phone.
\u201cCan this wait?\u201d she asked. \u201cI have brunch with\u2014\u201d
\u201cNo.\u201d
The word cut through the room cleanly.
Cassandra blinked.
For the first time in days, she looked directly at him.
Adrian held her gaze. Then he placed both hands on the armrests of the wheelchair.
Slowly, deliberately, he stood.
Not dramatically.
Not like a miracle.
Like a man finally refusing to keep sitting inside a lie.
Cassandra\u2019s face went white.
Her phone slipped from her hand and struck the marble floor with a sharp crack.
\u201cYou\u2026\u201d Her voice broke. \u201cYou\u2019re not\u2014?\u201d
\u201cNo,\u201d Adrian said. \u201cI\u2019m not paralyzed.\u201d
For several seconds, Cassandra said nothing. Shock moved across her face first. Then confusion. Then rage.
\u201cYou tricked me?\u201d she snapped. \u201cYou let me believe\u2014 Adrian, do you understand how sick that is?\u201d
He looked at her calmly.
\u201cDo you understand how sick it is to pretend you love someone while waiting for him to become useful again?\u201d
Her cheeks flushed.
\u201cThat is not what happened.\u201d
\u201cI heard you at 1:17 in the morning.\u201d
Cassandra froze.
Adrian stepped away from the wheelchair.
\u201cI heard you call me pathetic. I heard you say you were giving it a week. Maybe two. I heard you say you weren\u2019t throwing your life away for this.\u201d
Her eyes flickered.
For one brief second, the mask slipped completely.
Then she reached for anger because anger was easier than shame.
\u201cYou invaded my privacy.\u201d
\u201cYou revealed yourself.\u201d
\u201cYou humiliated me.\u201d
\u201cNo,\u201d Adrian said. \u201cI gave you a life without the image. You decided what to do with it.\u201d
Cassandra laughed once, harshly.
\u201cYou think this makes you noble? You lied. You manipulated me. You turned our relationship into some cruel little experiment.\u201d
\u201cYou\u2019re right,\u201d Adrian said.
The admission stopped her.
He swallowed.
\u201cIt was cruel. It was desperate. And I\u2019ll live with that. But the lie did not create your contempt, Cassandra. It only gave it permission to speak.\u201d
For the first time, she had no answer ready.
So she reached for performance again.
Tears gathered in her eyes, sudden and beautiful.
\u201cI stayed,\u201d she whispered. \u201cI tried.\u201d
Adrian looked at her for a long moment.
\u201cNo,\u201d he said softly. \u201cYou posed.\u201d
The tears vanished almost instantly.
Within an hour, Cassandra was packing.
Designer bags appeared in the hallway. Jewelry cases snapped shut. Dresses vanished into luggage. She moved through the penthouse like a storm in silk, furious not because she had lost him, but because she had been seen clearly.
At the door, she turned back.
\u201cYou\u2019ll regret this,\u201d she said.
Adrian stood in the center of the room.
\u201cNo,\u201d he answered. \u201cI\u2019ll grieve it. That\u2019s different.\u201d
Cassandra\u2019s expression twisted.
Then she left.
When the elevator doors closed behind her, the penthouse did not feel peaceful.
It felt enormous.
Empty.
Adrian stood there for a long time, listening to the silence that followed betrayal. He had imagined this moment would bring relief, maybe even satisfaction. Instead, it brought exhaustion so deep it seemed to settle into his bones.
He had exposed Cassandra.
But he had also exposed himself.
\u201cSir?\u201d
Maribel\u2019s voice came softly from the doorway.
Adrian turned.
She stood holding a breakfast tray: coffee, toast, eggs, sliced fruit arranged with quiet care. When she saw him standing, she stopped.
Her eyes widened.
Then, slowly, her expression changed\u2014not into shock, not accusation, but understanding.
\u201cI suppose you know the truth now,\u201d Adrian said.
Maribel set the tray down carefully.
\u201cI suspected,\u201d she admitted.
A faint, humorless smile touched his mouth.
\u201cBecause?\u201d
\u201cSometimes you moved your legs when you thought no one was watching.\u201d
For the first time that morning, Adrian almost laughed.
\u201cAnd you didn\u2019t say anything?\u201d
\u201cIt wasn\u2019t my place.\u201d
\u201cYou must think very little of me.\u201d
Maribel looked at him steadily.
\u201cNo,\u201d she said. \u201cI thought you were lonely.\u201d
The honesty landed harder than accusation would have.
Adrian looked away.
\u201cI was.\u201d
\u201cI know.\u201d
He sat down slowly\u2014not in the wheelchair, but on the edge of the sofa, as if even choosing where to sit had become meaningful.
\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d he said. \u201cFor the deceit. For putting that ugliness into the house. For making you part of something you didn\u2019t ask to witness.\u201d
Maribel was quiet for a moment.
\u201cSometimes people do the wrong thing because they\u2019re trying to find the right answer,\u201d she said.
\u201cThat doesn\u2019t excuse it.\u201d
\u201cNo,\u201d she agreed. \u201cBut it explains the wound.\u201d
Adrian looked at her then.
There was no flattery in her face. No hunger. No calculation. Just the calm presence of someone who had seen him at his weakest\u2014real or staged\u2014and had not used it against him.
\u201cCassandra said she couldn\u2019t throw her life away for this,\u201d he said quietly.
Maribel\u2019s gaze softened.
\u201cThen she never understood what a life is.\u201d
After Cassandra left, Adrian disappeared from the world that had once consumed him.
He canceled galas. Declined interviews. Delayed meetings that did not truly need him. The acquisition still moved forward, but for the first time, Adrian allowed other people to carry what he had always believed only he could hold.
The city noticed his absence for a week.
Then it moved on.
That was one of the first truths that comforted him.
The world did not collapse when he stopped performing.
The penthouse changed too.
Rooms once arranged for status became livable. Flowers replaced sculptures no one understood. The dining table, which had hosted investors and celebrities, began seeing ordinary meals. Adrian learned to make coffee properly. Then eggs. Then toast, though the toast defeated him longer than he liked to admit.
Maribel continued working there, but the rhythm between them shifted.
Not suddenly.
Not romantically at first.
It began with conversations.
Small ones.
Honest ones.
Adrian asked about Maine, and Maribel told him about a gray little town near the water, about winters that smelled like salt and woodsmoke, about her mother\u2019s garden behind a house with peeling paint. She told him she used to sketch rooms on the backs of receipts because she loved imagining spaces becoming warmer than they were.
\u201cYou should study design,\u201d Adrian said one afternoon.
Maribel smiled faintly.
\u201cThat costs money.\u201d
\u201cSo?\u201d he said automatically.
Then he stopped himself.
He had spent years believing money was the beginning of every solution. With Cassandra, money had purchased beauty, access, image, convenience\u2014but never truth.
He tried again.
\u201cI don\u2019t mean it like that,\u201d he said. \u201cI mean\u2026 you deserve to build something that belongs to you.\u201d
Maribel looked down at her hands.
\u201cNo one has ever said that like it was obvious.\u201d
\u201cIt should be obvious.\u201d
She did not answer, but her silence was not empty.
Weeks passed.
Adrian\u2019s suits stayed in the closet. His hair grew slightly longer. He stopped checking financial news before sunrise. He learned the names of the plants on the terrace. He read books without highlighting them for usefulness. He began to understand how much of his life had been organized around being admired by people who did not know him.
One morning, he burned breakfast so badly the smoke alarm complained.
Maribel rushed into the kitchen, saw Adrian standing in front of a pan of ruined eggs, and tried very hard not to laugh.
\u201cGo ahead,\u201d he said.
\u201cI would never.\u201d
\u201cYou absolutely would.\u201d
She pressed her lips together, failed, and laughed.
It was not polite laughter. Not party laughter. Not the kind Cassandra had used like jewelry.
It was bright, unguarded, and real.
The sound filled the kitchen, and something in Adrian\u2019s chest shifted with a quiet force that frightened him more than he expected.
He realized, standing there with burned eggs and smoke in the air, that he had spent years starving beside abundance.
He had owned everything except sincerity.
And now, for the first time, sincerity stood barefoot in his kitchen, laughing at his failure like it did not make him smaller.
By early spring, the terrace began to bloom.
The city was still cold in the mornings, but sunlight returned slowly, touching the glass towers, warming the stone planters, turning the bare branches gold for a few minutes after dawn.
One morning, Adrian woke before his alarm.
He crossed the bedroom, caught his reflection in the glass, and paused.
No tailored suit.
No perfect watch.
No woman beside him for the world to envy.
Just a man in a worn sweatshirt, hair unstyled, face quieter than it had been in years.
Not powerful.
Not impressive.
Alive.
He found Maribel on the terrace, trimming roses with careful hands. Her sleeves were rolled up, her hair loose around her face, the morning light soft across her shoulders.
She looked up when he stepped outside.
\u201cYou\u2019re awake early,\u201d she said.
\u201cI wanted to see the sunrise.\u201d
Maribel smiled slightly.
\u201cYou never cared about sunrises before.\u201d
\u201cI think I was usually too busy trying to own the day before it started.\u201d
She lowered the clippers.
\u201cAnd now?\u201d
Adrian walked to the railing. The city stretched beneath them, sharp and restless and beautiful in a way that no longer felt like a challenge.
\u201cNow I\u2019m trying to learn how to stand still.\u201d
Maribel watched him quietly.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Adrian turned toward her.
\u201cYou taught me something,\u201d he said.
\u201cI did?\u201d
\u201cYes.\u201d His voice was softer now. Steadier. \u201cThat love isn\u2019t proven by suffering through a test. It isn\u2019t proven by wealth, or loyalty captions, or standing beside someone when the room is full of cameras.\u201d
Maribel\u2019s expression changed, but she did not look away.
\u201cIt\u2019s proven when no one is watching,\u201d Adrian continued. \u201cBy presence. By kindness. By whether someone still sees you when there\u2019s nothing to gain.\u201d
The sun rose higher behind her, spilling gold across the terrace.
Maribel set the clippers down.
\u201cAnd you finally understand that?\u201d
Adrian smiled, not the sharp smile he used in boardrooms, not the polished one he gave photographers.
A real one.
\u201cI\u2019m trying.\u201d
Maribel stepped beside him at the railing. She did not take his hand. Not yet. She simply stood close enough that he could feel she had chosen to be there.
That was enough.
For the first time in his life, Adrian was not chasing the image of love.
He was standing quietly beside the real thing, learning how not to ruin it.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"The Woman Who Loved the Image Adrian Veyron heard the truth at 1:17 in the morning.The penthouse was dark except for the thin \n [...]<\/a>","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":422,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-421","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-1"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thestoryroom.site\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/421","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thestoryroom.site\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thestoryroom.site\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thestoryroom.site\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thestoryroom.site\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=421"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/thestoryroom.site\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/421\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":423,"href":"https:\/\/thestoryroom.site\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/421\/revisions\/423"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thestoryroom.site\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/422"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thestoryroom.site\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=421"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thestoryroom.site\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=421"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thestoryroom.site\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=421"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}