Chapter 3
I sit on a designer leather in the green room at Point of Contention trying not to look as nervous as I feel.
There's a spread of food on the table—cheese, fruit, tiny sandwiches with the crusts cut off—but my stomach is too knotted to eat. A monitor on the wall shows the live feed from the studio, where David Glass is currently interrogating the cast of Netflix’s latest big hit, pretending he is trying to get them to drop spoilers about the final season.
Their laughter makes for an uncanny backdrop to the tightness in my stomach.
It's been a week since the story dropped, and it’s only gotten bigger. Congressional hearings are being discussed. The FBI has issued a "no comment" that everyone interprets as confirmation of an investigation. Senator Crane's approval ratings have tanked.
And I'm about to go on the most-watched political show in the country to talk about it.
A production assistant pokes her head in. "Mr. Dean? We'll be ready for you in about three minutes."
"Thanks."
She disappears, and I'm alone again with my nerves and my notes.
I've prepared for this. Akari drilled me for hours, throwing every hostile question she could think of. I know my story inside out. I can do this.
On the monitor, Glass wraps up his interview and the show cuts to commercial.
My phone buzzes. Akari: You've got this. Remember to breathe. And don't let him see you sweat.
I type back: No pressure then.
Her response is immediate: All the pressure. But you thrive under pressure. Now go be brilliant.
I pocket the phone and stand, checking my reflection in the mirror by the door. I look presentable. Professional. I look like someone who belongs on national television, even if I don't quite believe it yet.
The production assistant returns. "Mr. Dean? They're ready for you."
I follow her down a corridor lined with photos of Glass's most famous guests: presidents, prime ministers, celebrities, criminals. The walls are a shrine to the show's history of making and breaking careers.
No pressure at all.
The studio is smaller than it looks on TV. Bright lights beat down on a set designed to look like a sophisticated study. It has leather chairs, bookshelves, the kind of warm wood tones that say "serious journalism" without being off-putting.
Of course, most studies don’t come with an audience. Multiple pairs of eyes watch me with interest as I enter. Only the cameramen aren’t paying attention yet. They’re fiddling with their cameras, chatting to each other while they wait for the commercial break to be over.
Glass sits in one of the chairs, reviewing notes with a producer. He looks up as I enter and his face transforms into that famous welcoming smile.
"Mr. Dean." He rises to shake my hand. His grip is firm, his eyes sharp. Up close, he looks older than he does on camera, but no less formidable. "Thank you for joining us. Quite a story you've broken."
"Thank you for having me."
"We'll keep things straightforward. I'll ask about your investigation, your sources—in general terms, of course, we respect journalist-source privilege—and the public interest angle. Nothing you haven't handled before."
I nod, trying to match his easy confidence. I haven’t handled any of this before. It’s my first big story but I’d bet anything that he already knows that. "Sounds good."
A sound tech clips a microphone to my lapel while someone else powders my forehead to cut the shine. I'm guided to the chair across from Glass, positioned so the camera can capture us both. The lights are hot, the studio hushed with that particular anticipation that precedes live television.
"Sixty seconds," someone calls out.
Glass settles into his chair, shuffling his notes. He catches my eye and winks. "Relax. You'll be fine."
Easy for him to say. He does this every week and he’s not the one being interrogated.
"Thirty seconds."
I take a breath. I can do this.
"And we're live in five, four, three..."
The producer's countdown goes silent, replaced by hand signals. The red light on the camera blinks on.
Glass turns to face it with the smoothness of a man who has been doing this for decades.
"Good evening. I'm David Glass, and this is Point of Contention.
Tonight, we're discussing the story that's dominated headlines all week: the explosive exposé alleging three generations of corruption in one of America's most prominent political families.
Joining me is the journalist who broke the story, Jamie Dean. Mr. Dean, welcome."
"Thank you for having me."
"Let's start with the basics. Walk us through what you found."
This part I know. I've rehearsed it a dozen times. I keep my voice steady, my language precise.
"Over an eight-month investigation, I documented a pattern of financial irregularities spanning the careers of three generations of the Crane family."
Glass nods, his expression attentive. "And can you support these claims?"
"Every allegation in the piece is backed by evidence."
"Strong words." Glass leans forward slightly. "Senator Crane has called your story a 'hit job' by a 'tabloid journalist with delusions of grandeur.' How do you respond?"
I've prepared for this too. "The Senator can call it whatever he wants. The documents speak for themselves. I'd encourage anyone who doubts the story to look at the evidence and draw their own conclusions."
"And your sources? The Senator's office has suggested they're disgruntled former employees with axes to grind."
"I'm not going to discuss my sources. What I will say is that I verified every piece of information through multiple channels. This isn't one disgruntled employee. This is a paper trail that spans decades."
Glass nods, making a note. We're five minutes in, and so far it's going exactly as planned. I start to relax slightly. Maybe this won't be so bad.
"Now," Glass says, and something shifts in his expression.
I recognize it immediately. I've seen it a hundred times watching his show.
The look that says he's about to do something unexpected.
"I thought it might be interesting to get another perspective on this story.
After all, journalism is about hearing all sides. "
I draw in a deep breath. This is the moment. I know exactly what he’s going to say before he says it. The only thing I didn’t know was which of the Cranes I was going to get.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Carter Crane III."
The studio door opens.
And the world ends.
I don't see him at first. I smell him. It’s that winter stillness, snow and silence, slamming into me like a wall, flooding my lungs, my bloodstream, my brain.
It’s the same scent from the masquerade. The same scent I've been dreaming about for three weeks, waking up hard and aching and desperate.
It's here. He's here. That scent was fucking Carter Crane III. Some part of me must have already knew it, but now the evidence has me frozen in place.
My hands spasm on the arms of the chair. My vision blurs at the edges. Somewhere far away, I'm aware that I'm on live television and that millions of people are watching. I need to hold it together but the thought is distant, irrelevant, drowned out by the roar of my own blood in my ears.
Only then do I see him.
Carter Crane III walks through the studio door, and my body reacts before my brain can catch up.
Heat floods through me, pooling low in my belly. My skin prickles. My mouth goes dry.
Every instinct I have is screaming at me to stand up, to go to him, to press my face against his neck and breathe him in until I can't tell where his scent ends and mine begins.
I grip the chair harder. I can feel the leather creaking under my fingers.
He's tall and moves with the kind of confidence that comes from a lifetime of power.
I know his face but seeing him in person is completely different.
Pure charisma rolls off of him. I blink, seeing dark hair, strong jaw, and shoulders that fill out his suit in a way that makes my throat tight.
He is the man I have been chasing in my dreams.
He takes three steps into the studio.
Then he stops.
It's not subtle. It's not a half-step or a slight hesitation. He stops dead, like he's walked into an invisible wall. His whole body goes rigid. I watch his nostrils flare, his chest expand as he drags in a breath. He's caught my scent the same way I've caught his.
His eyes find mine.
The impact is physical. I feel it in my gut like I’ve been punched. His pupils are blown wide, the gray-blue of his irises reduced to thin rings. He's staring at me like I'm the only person in the room. Like I'm the only person in the world.
My whole body clenches. I can feel slick threatening at my entrance, my body responding to his presence with absolutely no regard for the fact that we're on national television.
I press my thighs together under the desk, praying no one can smell what's happening to me even as I know that he can. Every alpha and omega in this studio can.
Carter hasn't moved. He's still standing in the middle of the floor, frozen, his mask of composure cracked wide open. I can see his hands shaking. I can see the rapid rise and fall of his chest. I can see the moment he realizes what's happening and tries to fight it.
"Mr. Crane?" Glass's voice cuts through the fog. He sounds delighted. "Please, have a seat."
Carter blinks. Something in his expression shutters, and I watch him pull himself together through sheer force of will. He takes a breath, then another. His hands clench into fists at his sides, then deliberately relax.
He walks to the empty chair.
Every step brings him closer to me. Every step makes the scent stronger. By the time he lowers himself into the seat, I'm dizzy with it. I feel like I'm going to pass out. I want to climb into his lap.