17. Mandatory Bonding
Mandatory Bonding
SLOANE
The air in Rhea Saye’s office was filtered, pressurized, and smelled faintly of expensive citrus and corporate apathy.
It was a room where the truth went to be reprocessed into something more palatable for the shareholders.
Rhea sat behind her glass desk, her movements as fluid and predatory as a koi fish in a tank.
She didn’t look like a woman who had just presided over a public execution via livestream.
"Security breach?" Rhea repeated, tilting her head with a look of practiced, elegant concern. "Sloane, that’s a very dramatic way of describing a common internet troll. The web is a dark place. People dig. They find things."
"They don't find the exact phrasing of a private conversation from seven years ago unless someone hands it to them on a silver platter," I said, my voice vibrating with a frequency that would have shattered the glass on her desk if I weren't holding myself so tightly.
I leaned forward, my knuckles white against the leather of the guest chair.
"The comment was timestamped and specific. It wasn't a guess. It was a leak."
Rhea didn't blink. She reached for a crystal carafe and poured herself a glass of water, the sound of the liquid hitting the glass the only noise in the suffocating silence.
"Perception is reality, Sloane. You of all people should know that.
The audience doesn't care about the source of the information; they care about the information itself.
And the information tells them that the unflappable Sloane Donovan has a very human, very messy history.
Our engagement is up three hundred percent. "
"I don't care about the engagement," I snapped, though we both knew that was a lie in this building. "I care about the fact that my private life is being weaponized in my own studio. I want the IP logs from the stream. I want a full internal audit of the server access for my personal dossier."
Rhea offered a small, thin smile that didn't touch her eyes—the kind of smile that was less about warmth and more about showing teeth. "We've already looked into it. The account was routed through three different VPNs in Eastern Europe. It’s a dead end. Perhaps you’re just feeling a bit... exposed? It’s a natural reaction to the kind of vulnerability Cooper is coaxing out of you. "
The mention of Cooper felt like a physical blow, a sudden shift in the atmospheric pressure.
I stood up, my chair screeching against the polished floor.
"Cooper isn't coaxing anything. And if you think you can gaslight me into believing this was just some random accident of the algorithm, you’ve forgotten who you’re talking to.
I built my brand on finding the people who hide behind the curtain, Rhea. Don't think I won't do it here."
Before she could respond, the heavy mahogany door swung open.
Graham Voss strolled in, looking entirely too satisfied with himself, his silk tie perfectly knotted.
He didn't knock; Graham didn't believe in boundaries when there was a victory lap to be taken.
Behind him, Cooper followed, his expression uncharacteristically grim, his shoulders set in a way that made him look less like a sunshine influencer and more like a man walking into a cage match.
"There she is!" Graham beamed, spreading his arms as if he expected me to fly into them.
"The woman of the hour. Rhea, have you seen the midday metrics? We’re trending above the evening news.
The ‘Donovan Breakdown’ is the best thing to happen to our Q4 projections since we signed the supplement deal. "
"It wasn't a breakdown, Graham," Cooper said, his voice low and dangerous. He moved to stand slightly behind me, a silent reinforcement that I hadn't asked for but felt with every nerve ending. "It was a targeted attack. We need to be discussing security, not spreadsheets."
Graham waved a hand dismissively, as if swatting away a fly.
"Security is being handled. What we need now is to lean in.
The audience wants the aftermath, Sloane.
They want the 'healing.' They want to see the two of you navigating this...
together. In a more ‘authentic’ setting than a soundproof box.
Think of it as crisis-management-meets-glamping. "
A cold dread began to coil in my stomach. I knew that tone. It was the tone Graham used right before he slid a new shackle around my wrist. "What does that mean, Graham?"
"It means," Graham said, his smile sharpening, "that the timing for our mandatory team-bonding retreat couldn't be better. We’ve booked the Lakeside Lodge for the weekend. Just the core team. You, Cooper, myself, Rhea, and a few key producers. We leave Friday morning."
"I can't go to a lodge on Friday," I said, my mind racing through a dozen excuses. "I have Milo. I have recordings. I have a life that doesn't involve roasting marshmallows with the people who are trying to dismantle my reputation."
"The contract addendum you signed last month, Sloane—the one that kept your show on the air—explicitly mandates participation in all network-wide brand-building events," Rhea said, her voice smooth as silk and twice as strong.
"Failure to attend would be a material breach.
And given the recent... instability of your brand, I don't think you can afford a breach right now. "
I looked at Cooper. He was watching me, his eyes dark with a mix of frustration and something that looked suspiciously like pity.
I hated it. I hated the way the walls were closing in, the way my career was being held hostage by a lakeside lodge and a PR strategy designed to sell my trauma as 'content. '
"Lakeside," I repeated, the word tasting like ash. "Fine. But if a single microphone or camera shows up in my private quarters, I’m calling my lawyer before I call the police."
"It’s purely for bonding, Sloane," Graham said, already turning toward the door. "We just want you and Cooper to find your rhythm. Everything else is just... background noise."
He exited with Rhea trailing behind him, leaving a vacuum of silence in the office.
Cooper didn't move. He stood there, the scent of his soap—something like pine and stubbornness—filling the small space between us.
I felt the denial loop start in my head: I didn't need his help, I didn't want his protection, and I certainly didn't want to spend forty-eight hours in a cabin with a man who made me feel like I was slowly, inevitably leaking air.
"You okay?" he asked softly. He didn't reach out, but the air between us felt charged, a static hum that made the hair on my arms stand up.
"I'm fine," I said, snapping my notebook shut. "I'm just thrilled at the prospect of communal bathrooms and forced vulnerability. It’s practically my love language."
"Sloane." He stepped closer, and I had to look up. He looked tired. The sunshine was dimmed, replaced by a raw, jagged intensity. "They’re setting us up. You know it, and I know it. This whole retreat is a stage. But I meant what I said in the studio. I’m not playing their game."
"You’re part of the network, Cooper," I said, trying to find my armor, but it felt heavy and ill-fitting. "You’re the 'Sunshine' they’re using to bleach out my 'Grump.' You’re playing the game whether you want to or not."
"Then I’ll play it differently," he said, his voice dropping into a register that felt like a secret.
He reached out then, his fingers brushing the sleeve of my blazer, a touch so light it could have been an accident if his eyes hadn't been locked on mine. "I’ve got your back. At the lodge, in the studio, wherever. I’m not going to let them turn you into a character in their script. "
I looked at his hand on my arm. He was a dangerous person to trust, not because he was cruel, but because he was kind, and kindness was the only thing I didn't know how to defend against. I pulled away, but the spot where he’d touched me felt warm, a lingering heat that defied the clinical chill of the office.
"Just pack your hiking boots, Cooper," I said, heading for the door. "And try not to be too charming. It’s going to be a long weekend."
I didn't look back, but as I walked down the hall toward the elevator, I could still feel the weight of his gaze.
It was the kind of attention that didn't just notice you; it cataloged you.
It was a noticing spiral I couldn't seem to break, a realization that the walls I'd built weren't keeping him out—they were just making the room we were trapped in feel smaller.
I wasn't just a podcaster anymore; I was a witness to my own unraveling, and the lakeside air was already starting to feel like a held breath.