2. The Scapegoat Strategy
The Scapegoat Strategy
COOPER ELLIS
The carpet in the hallway of NovaWave Media is a deep, expensive charcoal that swallows the sound of footsteps—a silence so heavy it feels intentional.
It’s likely why Sloane Donovan didn't hear me following her. Or maybe she did, and she’d already decided my existence didn't warrant the metabolic cost of a backward glance.
She moved with the kind of brisk, terrifying efficiency of a woman who has a recurring nightmare about wasted seconds.
"Sloane," I called out, my voice bouncing uselessly off the glass-walled offices where people in designer glasses were currently deciding the fate of the cultural zeitgeist. "Hey, Sloane. Can we just—"
She stopped. She didn't turn around immediately; she simply ceased all forward motion, her shoulders squaring like she was preparing to intercept a physical blow.
When she finally faced me, her expression was less 'welcome to the team' and more 'I am currently calculating how many ways I can dispose of your body using only audio equipment. '
"Mr. Ellis," she said. Her voice was as dry as a desert bone. "I believe our scheduled interaction for the day has concluded. Was there something in the fine print of your hijacking that required a post-show debrief?"
I tried on one of my more reliable smiles—the one that usually makes people want to tell me their life stories or at least stop wishing for my immediate demise.
It didn't even make a dent in the frost. "I just wanted to say I know the timing was...
suboptimal. Graham has a way of turning conversations into ambushes.
I'm not here to dismantle what you’ve built, Sloane. I actually like the show."
She took a step toward me, and despite being a few inches shorter, she managed to make me feel like I was the one being scrutinized under a very bright, very hot light.
"You like the show? That’s comforting. I’ll be sure to tell the three years of investigative work I’ve put into this brand that a man who once spent twenty minutes on his own podcast debating the merits of artisanal ice cubes thinks I’m doing a good job. "
I felt the heat climb my neck. "It was fifteen minutes. And the ice cubes were hand-carved from glacial runoff. But that’s not the point. I’m a professional, just like you."
"No," she said, her eyes narrowing until they were just sharp slivers of hazel. "I am a professional. You are a pivot. You are the bright, shiny distraction Graham is dangling in front of the board because my metrics dipped by two percent last quarter. Don’t mistake proximity for partnership, Cooper. You’re a guest in my house, and the second you track mud on the carpet, I’m kicking you out. "
She turned on her heel and disappeared into the green room before I could even find the words to tell her I didn't own any ice-carving equipment. I stood there for a second, my heart doing a strange, frustrated thrum against my ribs. She was sharp, certainly, but it was the kind of sharpness that felt like a defense mechanism rather than a personality trait. I’d spent my whole life being the guy people liked, the guy who could smooth over any friction with a joke and a steady hand.
Sloane Donovan was the first person who looked at my hand and saw a threat.
"Don't take it personally. She treats everyone like they're a potential subpoena."
I turned to see Graham Voss leaning against a doorframe, a smirk playing on his perfectly groomed face.
He looked like he’d been carved out of marble and then dressed in a suit that cost more than my first car.
He was holding a tablet, the screen glowing with a series of red and green graphs that I suspected represented our futures.
"She’s protective," I said, trying to maintain my diplomatic footing. "I get it. This is her life's work."
Graham chuckled, a sound that didn't quite reach his eyes. "It’s a product, Cooper. And right now, the product is getting a little too niche. Sloane thinks she's a crusader, but NovaWave is a business. We need your energy to balance her... acidity. You’re the sugar that makes the medicine go down."
I shifted my weight, the charcoal henley I’d chosen for its 'approachable but serious' vibe suddenly feeling a bit tight across the shoulders. "And if the medicine doesn't go down? If the audience doesn't like the new flavor?"
Graham stepped closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper that felt like a slick of oil on my skin.
"Then we know where the problem lies, don't we? If the show thrives, you’re the genius who saved the flagship. You’re the face of the new NovaWave.
But if it fails... well, even the most loyal audience will blame the new guy for ruining their favorite thing.
It's the scapegoat strategy, Cooper. High risk, high reward. "
The realization hit me with the quiet, devastating force of a missed tackle—a hollow thud in the center of my chest. I wasn't just a co-host. I was a structural insurance policy. If Sloane’s show tanked with me on board, they could fire her for 'creative differences' and keep the brand, or dump me and blame the failed experiment.
I was the variable they could discard without losing the house.
"You’re setting us up to fail," I said, the words feeling heavy in my mouth.
"I'm setting you up to win," Graham countered, tapping the tablet screen. "As long as you play the part. Be the sunshine, Cooper. Make them love you. Make her look like the problem, and you’ll never have to worry about your contract again."
He patted my shoulder—a gesture that was supposed to be fraternal but felt more like a brand—and walked away toward the executive elevators. I stood in the silence of the hallway, the weight of the scapegoat label settled firmly on my back. I wasn't a fixer here. I was a fuse.
I needed air, or maybe just a moment where someone wasn't trying to use me as a human shield. I headed toward the green room, figuring I’d grab my bag and find a quiet corner to rethink my entire career path. But when I pushed the door open, I stopped dead.
The room was small, filled with the usual corporate-chic furniture and a bowl of fruit that looked like it had been made of plastic.
In the center of the rug sat a boy, maybe six or seven years old, with a mop of dark hair and a pair of sneakers that looked like they’d seen a lot of playgrounds.
He was intensely focused on a pile of LEGO bricks, the plastic clicking rhythmically against the low table, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth.
Sloane was on the sofa, her laptop balanced on her knees, but her posture had completely changed.
The rigid, glacial woman from the hallway was gone.
She was leaning forward, her eyes soft, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she watched the boy build what looked like a very complex rocket ship.
"Mom, look," the boy said, his voice bright and unburdened. "I made the thrusters retractable so it can land on the moon without crashing."
"That's brilliant, Milo," she said, and her voice—the one I’d only heard dripping with sarcasm—sounded like warm honey. "Precision is everything in space travel."
I must have made a sound, because both of them looked up at once.
In a heartbeat, the warmth drained from Sloane’s face, replaced by a mask of pale steel.
She stood up, her laptop snapping shut with the finality of a gunshot.
SShe moved in front of the boy, a silent, instinctive positioning that told me everything I needed to know about her priorities.
The mama bear hadn't just arrived; she’d never left.
"Cooper," she said, her voice back to its razor-edge. "I wasn't aware we had a meeting scheduled in the green room."
"I just... I forgot my bag," I stammered, feeling like an intruder in a very sacred space. I looked down at the boy, who was peering around his mother's hip with a look of intense curiosity. "Hi. I'm Cooper."
Milo didn't look at his mom for permission. He stepped out from behind her, his eyes wide. "Are you the guy who talked about the ice cubes? My mom said you were coming to help with the show because people like it when things are loud and happy."
I felt a laugh bubble up in my chest despite the tension.
I knelt down so I was at his eye level, ignoring the way Sloane’s entire body seemed to vibrate with a warning.
"Guilty as charged. Although I prefer to think of it as 'enthusiastic' rather than just loud. That’s a serious rocket you’ve got there, Milo. Is that the Mark IV engine?"
Milo’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. "It’s the Mark V! With the solar-powered backup! How did you know?"
"I spent a significant portion of my childhood trying to reach escape velocity from my sister's dollhouse," I said, giving him a conspiratorial wink. "Solar backup is a smart move. You never know when you’ll hit a nebula."
Milo giggled—a loud, joyful sound that seemed to echo in the sterile room. I could feel Sloane’s gaze on the top of my head, a heavy, complicated weight. When I looked up at her, she wasn't scowling. She looked... unsettled. Like I’d just spoken a language she didn't realize I knew.
"Milo, pack up your things," she said, though the sharpness was tempered by a strange breathlessness. "We have to go. Tasha is waiting."
"But Cooper knows about the Mark V!" Milo protested, already grabbing a stray red brick. "Can he come with us?"
"No, Milo," Sloane said firmly, grabbing his backpack. She looked at me then, her eyes searching mine for something—a motive, a lie, a reason to keep her guard up. "Mr. Ellis has a lot of 'enthusiastic' work to do for the network. We wouldn't want to distract him from his pivot."
She ushered Milo toward the door, her hand resting protectively on his shoulder. As they reached the hallway, Milo turned back and gave me a frantic wave. I waved back, my heart feeling a sudden, unexpected tug.
Sloane paused in the doorway, her silhouette sharp against the bright lights of the hall.
She didn't say thank you. She didn't offer a truce.
But for the briefest of moments, she didn't look like a glacier.
She looked like a woman who was desperately trying to keep the world from finding out that she had something worth losing.
The door clicked shut, leaving me alone with the plastic fruit and the lingering scent of her perfume—something that smelled like rain and cedar.
I realized then that Graham was wrong. I wasn't just a scapegoat or a sugar pill.
I was the person who had just seen the one thing Sloane Donovan never wanted me to see: the truth behind the mic.
And as much as I wanted to save my own skin, I had the sinking feeling that I was going to end up fighting for hers instead.