9. Two Mics, One Trap
Two Mics, One Trap
SLOANE
The air in Studio B is always exactly sixty-eight degrees, a temperature engineered for the delicate processors of the mixing board rather than the living, breathing humans trying to survive inside it.
It smells like expensive acoustic foam, ozone, and the faint, lingering ghost of the peppermint tea I drank to settle the acid in my stomach.
Normally, this is my sanctuary—the one place where I control the mute button and the narrative.
Today, it feels like a very high-end cage.
Then there’s the man sitting across from me.
Cooper Ellis is wearing a charcoal-gray henley with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing forearms that have no business being that distracting in a professional setting.
He’s currently fussing with his headphones, a small, focused frown creasing the space between his eyebrows.
He looks less like a corporate saboteur and more like a guy who’d help you move a sofa and then bring you a craft beer as a thank-you.
That is his greatest weapon: the sheer, unadulterated sunshine of his brand.
"Ready, Sloane?" he asks, his voice coming through my monitors. It’s warm, resonant, and entirely too steady for a man who is about to help me dismantle my life's work.
"Ready is a relative term, Cooper," I say, my voice dropping into that low, rhythmic register I use for the show. "I’m professionally prepared. Whether I’m emotionally prepared for this particular brand of synergy is another conversation entirely."
Cooper offers a small, lopsided smile—the kind that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. "I promise I won't bite. Unless the script calls for a flirtatious rivalry, in which case I might nibble."
I feel a hot prickle of annoyance climb my neck. He’s referencing Rhea’s notes from yesterday, the ones that basically instructed us to turn my investigative podcast into a digital version of a rom-com. I don't do nibbling. I do scorched-earth truths.
"Stick to the facts, Cooper," I snap, though the bite is softened by the proximity of the mic. "Inez, let’s roll."
The red light flickers to life, an angry, glowing eye above the glass. I take a breath, letting the familiar weight of the role settle over me like armor.
"The truth isn't a comfort food," I begin, my internal monologue shifting into the polished cadence of the show. "It’s a bone. It’s hard, it’s jagged, and if you swallow it whole without looking, it’ll choke you.
Welcome to The Donovan Report. I’m Sloane Donovan, and today, for the first time in three hundred episodes, I’m not alone in the studio. "
I pause, the silence stretching for exactly three beats.
I can see the real-time metrics on the auxiliary monitor Graham insisted on installing.
The listener count is already ticking upward.
People aren't here for the investigation into the school board’s offshore accounts; they’re here for the train wreck.
"Joining me is Cooper Ellis," I continue, my tongue feeling heavy as I say his name. "Cooper is here to provide... a different perspective. One that NovaWave believes will help us broaden our horizons."
"That’s a very polite way of saying I’m the guy who thinks the glass is half full, Sloane," Cooper says, leaning in. His timing is perfect, damn him. He doesn't step on my lines; he slides into the gaps I leave behind. "And while you’re looking for the poison in the water, I’m interested in why we’re all so thirsty in the first place. "
I find myself staring at his hands. They’re broad, steady, resting flat on the console.
I wonder for a split second if he’s ever used them for anything besides holding a microphone and returning LEGO Batman heads.
I imagine those blunt fingers tracing the line of my jaw, and the thought hits me like a physical blow to the solar plexus.
I have to force my lungs to keep working.
"Thirst is a biological drive, Cooper," I counter, my voice sharpening. "Poison is a choice. One usually made by people with more money than conscience."
We go back and forth for the next forty minutes.
It’s electric. I can feel it in the way the air in the room seems to hum, in the way Inez is actually leaning forward in her chair, her eyes darting between us.
It’s not a recording; it’s a duel. Cooper challenges my cynicism with a relentless, gentle empathy that makes me want to scream and kiss him in equal measure.
Every time I try to pin him down, he redirects with a question that makes me sound like a heartless prosecutor.
The auxiliary monitor is glowing now. The numbers haven't just spiked; they've shattered the previous record for a live recording. We’re trending on social media. The trap is working perfectly.
"And that," I say, finally reaching the outro, my heart doing a frantic, jagged rhythm against my ribs, "is the report. We’ll be back on Thursday. Hopefully, with fewer metaphors and more receipts."
I cut the feed. The red light dies.
For a moment, neither of us moves. The silence in the room is heavy, thick with everything we just did and didn't say. Cooper pulls off his headphones, his hair messy from the band, and wipes a bead of sweat from his temple. He looks exhilarated.
"Sloane," he says, his voice low, no longer intended for the listeners. "That was... fuck. That was incredible."
The raw honesty in his tone is the final straw. I rip my own headphones off and stand up so fast my chair skitters back against the acoustic tiling. My hands are trembling, so I ball them into fists at my sides.
"Was it?" I ask, my voice trembling with a cold, sharp rage. "Was it incredible, Cooper? Or was it exactly what Graham and Rhea paid you for?"
Cooper flinches as if I’ve slapped him. The light in his eyes doesn't just dim; it goes out. He stands up slowly, mirroring my height, but where I am a live wire, he is a mountain—immovable and heavy.
"What are you talking about?" he asks softly.
"The metrics!" I point a finger at the monitor, where the graph is still hovering at a peak that looks like a serrated blade.
"Look at that! We just gave them the perfect 'flirtatious rivalry' pilot. You played the golden retriever, I played the ice queen, and the internet is currently losing its collective mind over whether or not we’re going to fuck by the mid-season break. "
I step around the desk, invading his space.
My breathing is shallow, hot against my own lips, and the smell of him—pine and something deeper, like sun-warmed skin—is a sensory hijack.
I need him to be the villain. I need him to be the plant.
Because if he’s not, then I’m just a woman who’s been staring at a stranger's forearms for an hour while her life burns down around her.
"You’re their perfect tool," I spit, the words tasting like copper in my mouth. "You’re the soft, approachable face they’re using to hollow out my show. You’re a corporate plant, Cooper. You were sent here to make me palatable, and you’re doing a hell of a job."
Cooper doesn't yell. He doesn't get defensive. He just looks at me with a profound, quiet hurt that makes my stomach drop through the floor. He takes a half-step closer, and I’m suddenly pinned between him and the edge of the console.
He doesn't touch me, but the heat radiating from him is an accusation all its own.
"You really think that?" he asks. His voice is a rough whisper now. "You think I’m just a script with a haircut?"
"I think nobody is that nice for free," I say, though my resolve is cracking. I'm looking at his mouth. I'm looking at the way his lower lip is slightly fuller than the top one. I'm realizing that I've spent the last hour documenting the exact way his jaw moves when he's thinking.
"I chose this show, Sloane," Cooper says. He reaches out, his hand hovering near my shoulder before he catches himself and pulls it back. The missed contact feels like a physical ache. "I fought for this spot. Not because Graham told me to, but because I’ve listened to every single episode you’ve ever made.
I respected you. I thought you were the only person in this building who actually gave a damn about the truth. "
He shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. "But you don't want the truth, do you? You want a villain. You want someone to blame for the fact that you’re tired and scared. Well, congratulations. You found him."
He turns and grabs his bag, moving with a sudden, jerky efficiency that is the exact opposite of his usual grace. He doesn't look at me again. He just walks toward the heavy studio door, his shoulders tight and broad under the charcoal fabric.
"Cooper," I start, the name catching in my throat. I don't even know what I’m going to say. I'm sorry? I was wrong? I noticed the way you saved me that line about the offshore accounts and I haven't been able to breathe properly since?
He doesn't stop. The sound-proof door swings shut with a heavy, final thud that echoes in the small room.
I’m left standing in the sixty-eight-degree silence, staring at the blank monitor.
For the first time in my career, I’ve hit every metric and shattered every record.
I’ve given the audience exactly what they wanted, and the victory tastes like ash.
And as I listen to the hum of the cooling machines, I realize that I’ve never felt more like the person I’ve spent my entire life trying to expose.
Inez is watching me through the glass. She doesn't say a word. She just reaches out and slowly, deliberately, slides the master fader all the way down to zero.
The silence is absolute. I do not feel like an anchor. I feel like the jagged bone I warned my listeners about, stuck in my own throat, cutting me from the inside out.
I sit back down in the dark. I do not call him back. I just pick up my peppermint tea and find that it’s gone stone cold.