Chapter 16
LOCKE
Every afternoon this week has ended the same way.
Me and Arden in my office. Her on the couch with a book in her hands that I’m not sure she’s actually reading. Me at the desk, tablet in hand, skimming headlines and drafting press releases while a record spins low in the background.
I suppose it should feel routine by now, but it doesn’t.
I’ve learned her tells. The way she pretends not to listen. The way her attention hones when something matters. The fact that she never asks questions she hasn’t already thought through.
The record spins out, the crackle fading into silence.
I try not to look at her. If I do, I’ll read too much into how comfortable she seems. The way she settles in like this is a choice, even though I didn’t give her one.
“So,” she says, sitting up to face me. “What’s this gala all about?”
There it is.
I keep my eyes on the tablet, unsure how much truth I want to give her right now. She doesn’t need to know everything, just enough to do the job.
“It’s a fundraiser.”
“For what, exactly?”
I exhale through my nose. Of course she won’t let that be enough.
“Mental health and addiction recovery. The industry’s favorite virtue signal.”
She snorts in response.
I turn the screen I’m holding toward her. There’s an image of a man standing on a red carpet, smiling into the camera. His sleek blonde hair is perfectly styled. Baby blue eyes stare back at us, and his arm drapes around a tall brunette.
The headline above his image reads: Luke Holloway’s Charm is Winning Over Hollywood.
Her reaction is instant. “Luke Holloway. Ever the pretty boy.”
“Publicly,” I say. “Privately? Not so much.”
I feel the shift in her attention the second the words leave my mouth. The way her posture straightens and her eyes narrow.
“What do you know that you’re not telling me?”
I open the wooden box on my desk, reaching for a cigar. More for the breathing space than the smoke. I clip the end before lighting it and taking a long drag, looking past Arden as I respond.
“Luke,” I finally reply, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. “He takes what he wants. He has no regard for who it might belong to, or what that means for anyone else.”
“That sounds personal,” she says carefully, like she’s weighing her words.
I glance at her then. She’s studying me like there’s a right answer and she’s determined to find it.
“Men like him don’t respect boundaries. They see them as challenges,” I continue, ignoring the comment.
“And trust me when I say he takes on any challenge that comes his way.” I tap ash into the tray harder than necessary.
“He’s charming, though. People see only what he wants them to.
He’s very good at making his messes look like someone else’s fault. ”
“So why doesn’t anyone call him out?” she asks.
“Some have tried,” I say. “They’re the ones who tend to… disappear from the narrative.”
Her eyes widen, but her silence tells me she understands exactly what I mean.
I change the image on the screen before she can ask another question.
This time we’re looking at a very different image. Not a pristine red-carpet photo, but a gritty one of a man under blinding stage lights.
He’s thin but muscular, wearing tight leather pants and no shirt. Sweat drips down his tattooed chest as he screams into a microphone.
His headline stands in stark contrast to Holloway’s: Jaxon Wilde’s Partying Sparks Concern Among Fans.
She scoffs as soon as she reads it. “That’s bullshit.”
I look at her again. This time I don’t hide the interest.
She talks about his charity work, his fans, the way the press could’ve highlighted anything else about him, and I listen. Really listen.
I track every shift in her tone, the way frustration flashes across her face as she rants. I note what she emphasizes and what she dismisses. She speaks like someone who’s been paying attention long before this job came into the picture.
“So, you see what’s happening,” I state plainly.
She gives me a silent nod. “One of them is actually dangerous, and the other just looks like it… and the media has both of them wrong.”
I draw on the cigar, smoke curling between us. “Most people just believe what they’re shown.” I hold her gaze. “Not you, though.”
She exhales, shaking her head slightly. I can see it on her face. The discomfort, the realization that this is only the surface. She looks like she’s already tired, though we haven’t even started yet.
“If Luke’s as bad as you make him sound,” she mutters, “I can’t wait to ruin his career.”
I glance at her then. Long enough to know she isn’t speaking lightly; she means it. Even if she doesn’t yet understand what that would actually cost.
“Trust me, Arden,” I say evenly. “You don’t want to see how deep the corruption goes. I wouldn’t want you to, either.”
She watches me for a moment before smirking. “Keep making comments like that, and I might think you actually like me.”
I don’t respond.
I just study her. The confidence, the grit, the way she keeps pushing even when she shouldn’t. I hold her gaze a moment longer than I should.
Then I turn back to my work.