Chapter 5 River
FIVE
RIVER
I show up to work late. And I don’t care. Let them fire me, or send me another mindfulness worksheet.
The espresso machine is making that awful wheezing sound again, like it’s about to cough up a demon. I’m standing in the kitchenette staring at it like I can force it to work with the power of raw desperation.
“I think it’s dying,” I mutter.
Gage appears behind me like he was summoned by sarcasm. “Maybe it just doesn’t respond to passive aggression.”
“It’s your fault. You used it last.”
“I cleaned it.”
“Lying to my face before coffee? Bold move.”
He leans against the counter, way too smug for someone who regularly burns his toast in the communal toaster. “Maybe it’s just tired of being manhandled.”
“Like all of us,” I say flatly.
He grins. Of course he grins. And the sight slays me. “You wound me.”
“If only.”
Gage reaches past me—why does he always smell good?—like sandalwood and danger, with a hint of something warm and clean underneath, like he just stepped out of a hot shower and into my personal space.
His arm brushes mine as he leans in, close enough that I feel the heat of him through my hoodie. My breath hitches. Stupidly. Embarrassingly.
He presses a button on the espresso machine, slow and deliberate, and the machine sputters like it’s dying for attention. Just like me, apparently.
He doesn’t move away. He just stands there, so close I can count the tiny stubble along his jaw. His fingers rest lightly on the counter beside mine, and I’m suddenly hyperaware of everything—his hand, his shoulder, the way his chest rises and falls just a breath behind me.
The machine gurgles out exactly half a cup.
He grabs the mug and holds it out toward me, the steam curling between us like smoke from something about to catch fire.
“For you, milady,” he says, voice low and teasing, but there’s something else underneath it. Something charged. “I’ll take the sacrifice.”
I reach for the mug, fingers brushing his.
The contact is light. Barely a touch. But it lingers.
My skin tingles where we connect—ridiculous, fleeting heat like he short-circuited me with a graze.
Our eyes meet.
Neither of us speaks for a moment too long. The air between us stretches tight. He tilts his head just slightly, gaze dropping to my mouth before snapping back up like he caught himself.
I pull the mug toward me like it’s a shield. “You never give me the first cup,” I say, hating how breathy it comes out.
He shrugs, slow and smug. “Don’t read into it.”
Oh, I am definitely reading into it.
And now I’m not sure if I want to slap him or kiss him—or maybe both, depending on the order.
“You’re weird today,” I say.
He smiles wider. “You’re welcome.”
I head back to my desk feeling… lighter. Which is suspicious. Any moment now the universe is going to slap me for even thinking I can breathe.
I settle into my chair, open my laptop, and scan my emails.
Ninety-three unread.
Cool. Normal. Everything is burning and no one is doing anything about it.
Then Slack pings.
#general
@everyone anyone else seeing that River Quinn interview?
My stomach drops.
I click. I shouldn’t click.
But I do.
A video loads. It’s me—or it looks like me. I’m sitting in the NovaPlay press room, wearing the same blue blouse I wore to the launch panel last quarter. Same posture. Same voice.
Except the voice isn’t mine.
“I mean… yeah, sometimes you just have to sleep with the right people to get ahead.”
Laughter from the fake audience. My face smiling. Like it’s true.
“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no.”
There’s a second clip, edited in like a highlight reel:
“I knew Mason would help me get the job. He owed me, after all.”
It’s not real. It’s not me. But it looks real.
Slack explodes.
@devdad86: wait wtf??
@pixeldrop: is this a joke?
@midnightmod: who posted this??
I lurch out of my chair. Gage is already standing, eyes on me. Concern etched between his eyebrows.
“River—”
I bolt.
My hands shake so hard I can’t get my badge to scan at the side door. I punch it once, then shove the bar and push out into the alley, chest heaving. I need out. I will not let them see me cry.
The air slaps my face like a punishment. I gulp it in like I can’t get enough.
How—how did they do that? That interview wasn’t even recorded. It was closed-door. No cameras. Just a few people. Legal. Comms.
My mind is racing and I can’t catch it. I never said those words.
I grab my phone and open the forum again, the one Mask brought me into. My fingers are sweating. I can barely type.
They made a deepfake of me.
I don’t know why I send it. I just do. Like my body knows who to run to now.
The reply is instant.
I know.
I pulled it already, but it spread fast.
Do you trust me?
Tears sting my eyes. I don’t let them fall.
Yes.
Then let me break them.
I grip the phone tight. Like it’s the only thing keeping me from shattering.
Okay, make them cry.
Another ping.
That’s the plan.
And for the first time since this started, I don’t feel helpless.
I feel dangerous.