4. The Red Flag File
The Red Flag File
COOPER
The shower in my apartment has exactly two settings: freezing glacial runoff or surface-of-the-sun.
I’m currently opting for the latter, leaning my forehead against the subway tile and letting the steam work on the knot of tension that’s been living between my shoulder blades since I stepped into NovaWave’s lobby this morning.
It’s only been eight hours since Sloane Donovan looked at me like I was a particularly persistent case of athlete’s foot, and yet my brain is already cataloging her in ways that feel dangerously unprofessional.
I can’t stop thinking about the way her sharp features softened for a split second when she looked at Milo—a fleeting crack in the glacier.
Or the way her voice drops half an octave, turning husky and dangerous, right before she delivers a killing blow.
It’s a Noticing Spiral, and I’m losing my footing fast.
I step out of the steam and wrap a towel around my waist, catching my reflection in the fogged mirror.
I look like the guy the network wants me to be—the healthy, upbeat, former athlete who can sell lifestyle tips to anyone with a pulse.
But inside, I feel like I’m walking a tightrope over a pit of LEGOs and corporate landmines.
I have forty-five minutes to turn myself into a dinner guest who doesn't look like he’s panicking about meeting a six-year-old and his razor-tongued mother.
My phone chirps from the vanity, a sharp, digital intrusion into the quiet of the bathroom.
I pick it up, expecting a text from Lena checking in on my first day, or maybe a reminder from my calendar about the pizza dinner.
Instead, there’s an email from Rhea Saye.
The subject line is blank. The attachment is an encrypted PDF titled DONOVAN_RISK_ASSESSMENT.
I stare at the screen, my thumb hovering over the file.
Rhea Saye doesn't send casual reading material. She’s the Head of PR, the woman who treats the truth like a lump of clay she can mold into whatever shape suits the network’s bottom line.
If she’s sending me a file on Sloane, it’s not because she wants us to be friends.
I sit on the edge of the bed, the damp towel cold against my skin, and enter the password Rhea messaged me earlier.
The file opens with a soft chime that sounds like a digital funeral bell.
It’s a dossier. A Red Flag File. It’s twenty pages of Sloane’s life, stripped of its humanity and distilled into clinical bullet points and risk-mitigation strategies.
My stomach does a slow, uncomfortable roll.
There’s a photo of her at the top—not a professional headshot, but a candid one where she looks tired, her hair messy, her eyes wide with a vulnerability I’ve only caught in glimpses.
Underneath it, in clean, clinical font, are the words: Subject: Sloane Donovan.
Status: High-Level Leak Risk. Incident Reference: The 2018 Breakdown.
I shouldn't read this. Every scrap of the steady, emotionally intelligent guy I’ve spent years building tells me to close the laptop.
To keep my hands clean. But curiosity is a heavy, oily thing, and I’m already sliding.
This is her private history, her trauma, her life, and the network has turned it into a spreadsheet.
But then I see a highlighted section: Historical context for current defensive behavior patterns.
Recommended management strategy: Controlled exposure.
The words make my skin crawl. They aren't just managing a podcast; they’re managing her.
They’re using her past as a blueprint for how to break her down.
I scan the first few paragraphs and the air in the room suddenly feels too thin.
It’s all there—the betrayal by her former mentor, the way he took a private confession of her deepest fears and edited it into a viral clip of her 'losing it' on air.
The network didn't just document it; they’ve been keeping it in their back pocket like a leash.
I close the laptop so hard it makes a snapping sound.
My heart is thudding against my ribs, a dull, heavy beat of genuine anger.
This is why she treats me like a virus. To her, I’m not just a co-host; I’m the next iteration of the machine that already tried to eat her alive.
I’m the 'controlled exposure' Rhea mentioned in her notes.
I stand up and pace the small length of my bedroom, dragging a hand through my damp hair.
I wanted this job. I wanted to prove that I could be more than just a guy who looks good in a henley and knows how to talk about hydration.
But I didn't sign up to be a weapon. I didn't sign up to be the tool Graham and Rhea use to finish what that mentor started.
I look at the clock. Thirty minutes until I’m supposed to be at her door.
Thirty minutes to decide if I’m going to be the guy who follows the network’s playbook or the guy who actually tries to earn the seat next to her.
The ethical weight of it is a physical constriction in my chest, a pressure that makes it hard to breathe.
I catch sight of the Batman LEGO head sitting on my dresser.
I’d found it wedged under the sofa in the green room after Sloane and Milo left, and I’d tucked it into my pocket without thinking.
It’s a tiny, plastic piece of a much larger puzzle, and right now, it feels like the only honest thing in my apartment.
If I tell her about the file, I’m violating my contract before the ink is even dry.
If I don't tell her, I’m just another person in her life with a secret and a hidden agenda.
I think about Milo’s laugh when we were building that lopsided Batmobile.
I think about the way Sloane’s shoulders stayed tense even when she was trying to be kind to him.
She’s not just grumpy. She’s not just difficult.
She’s a woman who has been burned so badly she’s built a fortress out of skepticism, and I just found the map the network is using to siege the walls.
I grab a clean henley—charcoal, because it’s safe—and pull it on.
My hands are steady, but there’s a coldness in my gut that won't go away.
I’m going to that dinner. I’m going to sit at her table, eat her pizza, and keep a straight face while her son shows me his LEGOs.
And I’m going to do it knowing that every move I make is being tracked by people who want me to fail just enough to make her look worse.
It’s not just a partnership anymore. It’s a rescue mission, even if she’d rather choke on her own pride than let me help her.
I pick up the LEGO head and slide it into my pocket. It’s a small weight, a tangible reminder of the person behind the 'Red Flag' designation. Sloane Donovan isn't a risk to be mitigated. She’s a woman who’s been betrayed, and I’m the only one who knows the next knife is already being sharpened.
I grab my keys and head for the door. The silence of my apartment feels heavy, the kind of quiet that follows a revelation you can't un-know.
I don't know what I'm going to say when she opens that door, but I know one thing for certain: I am not Rhea Saye’s instrument.
And I am definitely not going to let Graham Voss win.
As I walk to my car, the evening air is crisp, smelling of rain and city exhaust. I take a deep breath, trying to settle the frantic thrumming in my mind.
Tonight isn't about ratings. It’s not about the 'Donovan-Ellis Exchange' or the marketing strategy Rhea is probably drafting as I speak. It’s about the fact that I’m falling for a woman who has every reason to hate me, and I’m the only one who can see the trap she’s walking into.
I pull out of the parking garage, the city lights blurring into long, jagged streaks of gold and red.
The Red Flag File is still sitting on my bed, encrypted and cold, but the information inside it is burned into my brain.
I’m going to her home. I’m entering her private domain.
And for the first time in my career, I don't have a script.