37. The Corporate Fallout
The Corporate Fallout
SLOANE
The silence in the kitchen wasn't the peaceful kind I usually curated; it was the heavy, ionized air that follows a lightning strike. My laptop sat on the marble island, the screen still glowing with the analytics from our pirate broadcast. The numbers were staggering—the kind of viral reach Graham would have sold his soul for—but they felt like a fever dream. My hands felt cold, the tips of my fingers numb as I refreshed the finance ticker. NovaWave’s stock wasn't just dropping; it was in a freefall, a jagged red line slicing through the screen like an open wound.
"They're hemorrhaging," Cooper said softly, leaning against the counter. He was holding a mug of coffee he hadn't touched in twenty minutes, his eyes fixed on the same red line. "The board is going to lose their minds."
"Let them lose them," I said, my voice sounding raspy even to my own ears. I tried to find that sharp, clinical detachment I’d spent a decade perfecting, the version of Sloane Donovan who could dissect a corporate collapse with surgical precision.
But my ribs felt tight, a physical constriction that had nothing to do with data and everything to do with the man standing three feet away.
"They built a house of cards on top of my life. I’m just providing the wind. "
Cooper shifted, his shoulder brushing mine, and for a second, the world narrowed down to that single point of contact.
The scent of him—something like cedar and the cold night air—filtered through my defenses.
He didn't say anything, which was the most 'Cooper' thing he could do.
He just stayed there, a steady, sun-warmed weight in a world that was currently vibrating apart.
I wanted to lean into him, to let his broad shoulder take the weight of the last forty-eight hours, but the notification ping from my phone shattered the moment.
It was a press release from Rhea Saye. I didn't even have to open it to know what it said, but I did anyway, because I’m a masochist who likes to see the exact shape of the knife before it twists. The headline read: NovaWave Media Statement on Recent Unauthorized Broadcasts.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," I whispered, my thumb scrolling through the text.
My blood didn't boil; it turned to slush.
Rhea hadn't just denied the evidence; she had pivoted.
She was claiming that I, the 'manipulative veteran,' had coerced a 'vulnerable and junior' Cooper Ellis into participating in the independent broadcast under duress.
She was painting me as the predator and Cooper as the victim of my professional desperation.
"Sloane?" Cooper’s voice was cautious. He set his mug down on the island with a soft clink.
"Read it," I said, sliding the phone toward him.
I watched his face as he scanned the lines—the way his jaw tightened, the way the light in his eyes cooled into something hard and dangerous.
He looked like the man who had stood over Derek in the breakroom, the golden retriever persona stripped away to reveal the steel underneath.
It was a look that made my breath catch in a way that was entirely unprofessional.
"She’s trying to split us," Cooper said, his voice dropping an octave. "She thinks if she can make you the villain, she can salvage my brand and kill the validity of the evidence. She’s weaponizing my 'niceness' against your 'sharpness.'"
"It’s a classic Rhea move," I said, pacing the length of the kitchen. "Perception is reality. If she can convince the world that I broke you, then nothing we said on that stream matters. It becomes the story of a disgruntled woman dragging a good man down with her."
The unfairness of it felt like a physical blow to my solar plexus.
I had spent years being the 'difficult' woman, the 'razor-tongued' host, and I had worn those labels like armor.
But Rhea was using that armor to bury me.
I looked at Cooper, expecting to see the first seeds of doubt—the realization that his career was being incinerated by association.
Instead, he was watching me with an intensity that made the room feel too small.
"She’s wrong," he said, stepping into my path. He caught my elbows, his grip firm but grounding. "She’s so incredibly wrong. I wasn't coerced, Sloane. I’m exactly where I want to be."
"Your career is a smoking crater, Cooper," I countered, my voice shaking. "They’re going to blackball you. They’re telling the world I’m a predator."
"Let them," he said, his thumbs tracing small circles on the fabric of my sleeves. "I don't care about a network that thinks 'authenticity' is something you manufacture in an editing suite. I care about the truth. And I care about you."
I looked up at him, searching for the lie, the hidden angle, the PR-friendly pivot.
But there was nothing but that terrifying, relentless sincerity.
It was the kind of look that made me want to run a hundred miles in the opposite direction and simultaneously stay in this kitchen forever.
I had been betrayed by the best, edited into a villain by experts, but Cooper looked at me like I was the only thing in the room that made sense.
It was a bookmark moment—the kind of second you store away to remind yourself that you aren't actually made of glass and sharp edges.
"We can't let this sit," I said, finally finding my footing. "If we stay quiet, the narrative hardens. We need to end this. We need one final, public confrontation where they can't edit us, can't mute us, and can't hide behind a spokesperson."
"The lobby," Cooper said, his eyes lighting up with a shared realization. "NovaWave HQ. Tomorrow morning. During the peak of the news cycle."
"It’s a suicide mission," I noted, though my heart was already racing with the strategic thrill of it. "We'll be trespassing. They'll have security at every door."
"Then we bring the world with us," Cooper replied, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face. "We invite every journalist, every competitor, and every listener who wants the real story. We don't record a podcast, Sloane. We hold a press conference in their own lobby."
Before I could respond, my phone buzzed again.
This time it wasn't a press release. It was a name I hadn't expected to see on my screen tonight. Noah. I stared at the caller ID, feeling a familiar weight of dread settle in my stomach. Noah Briggs—Milo’s father, my ex, and a man who treated guilt like a fine art form.
I looked at Cooper, then at the phone, and stepped away to answer it.
"Noah? It's late," I said, my voice tight.
"I saw the news, Sloane," Noah’s voice was calm, curated to sound like the concerned co-parent, but I could hear the underlying edge of control. "I saw the headlines about this... independent broadcast. And the statements from the network. It’s all very messy. Very public."
"I'm handling it, Noah. Milo is fine. He’s asleep."
"Is he? Because it seems like his mother is currently the center of a corporate scandal involving coercion and leaked audio. This doesn't look like a stable environment for a six-year-old. I’ve had parents from his school calling me, asking what’s going on."
I closed my eyes, leaning my forehead against the cool glass of the window.
This was his move—wait for the moment I was most vulnerable, then use Milo as the leverage to remind me that I was a 'difficult' mother.
"The school parents are gossips, Noah. You know that.
I am protecting my career and my son from people who tried to sabotage us. "
"I just think maybe Milo should stay with me for a while," he said, and there it was. The velvet-wrapped threat. "Until this... fallout settles. You’re clearly under a lot of pressure, Sloane. Your judgment seems... compromised. Especially with this new co-host of yours."
"My judgment is exactly where it needs to be," I said, my voice dropping into that low, rhythmic register that usually signaled a takedown.
"Milo stays with me. He is safe. And if you try to use this corporate hit piece as a way to undermine my custody, I will bring the same energy to you that I’m currently bringing to NovaWave. Do not test me tonight, Noah."
There was a long silence on the other end. Noah knew when he’d pushed too far, when the guarded mother turned into the investigative shark. "I'm just looking out for him, Sloane. Think about how this looks. That’s all."
He hung up, leaving the dial tone echoing in my ear like a threat.
I stood there for a moment, the silence of the kitchen pressing in on me.
I felt like a bridge being burned from both ends—my professional life being dismantled by Rhea, and my personal life being threatened by Noah. I felt small. I felt exhausted.
Then a hand settled on the small of my back. It was a light touch, barely there, but it felt like an anchor dropped in a storm. Cooper was standing behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him.
"He’s trying to rattle you," Cooper said softly. He didn't ask what Noah had said; he didn't have to. He had seen the way my shoulders had hiked toward my ears.
"He wants to take Milo," I whispered, the admission feeling like a crack in my foundation. "He thinks I'm too messy. He thinks I'm the villain Rhea says I am."
Cooper turned me around, his hands sliding up to my shoulders.
He didn't look at me with pity; he looked at me with a fierce, unwavering belief.
"You are the most competent person I have ever met.
You are a brilliant mother and a goddamn force of nature.
Noah is just another man trying to dim your light so he feels brighter.
We aren't letting him. We aren't letting any of them win. "
"I'm so tired of fighting, Cooper," I said, the honesty slipping out before I could stop it. "I’ve been fighting for so long."