15
‘You had no right, Steve!’
Chelsea’s voice was sharp and furious in the cramped office.
Blake leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, her muted phone vibrating at her hip like a warning.
Beside her, Sam hovered half-in, half-out in the corridor, looking like he couldn’t decide whether they were about to be witnesses or accessories to whatever Chelsea had in store.
Steve sat behind his desk, red-faced, one hand planted flat on the battered laminate like he might launch it.
‘You lost control,’ he snapped. ‘You let that whole circus run wild on air. You forced me to step in!’
Chelsea’s laugh was short and lethal. ‘You stormed into the studio, Steve. During a live break. That’s not stepping in, that’s an ambush.’
Across the room, Britt clutched her laptop like it might shield her. Her face was pale, her eyes darting between them like a trapped animal.
Blake felt the hairs lift on the back of her arms.
This wasn’t just Steve being Steve. This didn’t feel like a content decision. It felt personal.
‘You think you know better than me?’ Steve barked, jabbing a finger at Chelsea. ‘You think your little sob-story segments give you the right to hijack this station’s brand? You are a producer. I am the content director.’
Chelsea didn’t flinch. ‘If by ‘hijack’ you mean “deliver the highest engagement figures you’ve seen in five years”, then yeah, I guess I do.’
Blake caught Sam’s glance. Quick, grim, and knowing. Even he could feel it. The air was charged. Wrong.
Steve’s face darkened, a vein popping just below his temple.
‘I don’t care how many sad sacks call in to talk about their exes,’ he growled. ‘This is a breakfast show, not bloody Oprah.’
Chelsea’s smile was razor-sharp. ‘And yet,’ she flicked her phone screen up, voice deliberate, ‘tracking’s in.’
Britt turned, whispering to Blake, ‘I thought survey results weren’t for weeks?’
Blake murmured back, ‘This is just early indicators. But they’re usually a strong read on how the official survey’s gonna land.’
Chelsea continued, tilting the screen towards Steve like she was tossing a grenade. ‘Maybe listen to the numbers for once.’
Steve leaned forward like he might lunge.
And then stopped.
The room went still.
Even Britt froze, blinking like she’d missed a step.
Steve’s jaw worked for a moment, like he was chewing on words he couldn’t quite swallow. His hands flexed against the desk, knuckles white, then loosened. The red in his face didn’t fade so much as shift, morphing into something else entirely.
He blinked once. Twice. Like a switch flipping.
He straightened up, smoothing his hands down his shirt like nothing had happened. His smile—wide, crooked—was terrifying in its suddenness. ‘Well then,’ he said, voice light, almost sing-song. ‘If the people like it…’
He trailed off, surveying them all like a benevolent dictator bestowing favours.
Chelsea didn’t move. Neither did Blake. Sam was silent, jaw set.
The door creaked behind them. Mack strolled in, coffee in hand, looking around like he’d walked into the wrong meeting. He glanced around. ‘What’d I miss?’
Blake didn’t even turn. ‘Wouldn’t know where to start,’ she said.
Steve clapped his hands once, loud and sharp. Britt jumped. ‘Let’s keep riding the wave, team!’ he said. ‘Britt, great work on socials yesterday. Loved the tone. Loved the urgency. Just… loved it!’
Britt stared at him like he’d grown a second head.
Blake tracked the way Chelsea’s hand tightened around the strap of her laptop bag, the way Britt’s shoulders folded inward, small and brittle, the way Sam shifted, placing himself closer to Britt.
Steve beamed wider, almost giddy. ‘Let’s go harder. Post everything. Sketches, photos, that blurry potato shot—get it all up!’
‘Potato shot?’ Mack muttered behind Blake. ‘Mate, you like that one? That was my line.’
It should have been funny. Should have broken the tension. But it didn’t.
Blake’s pulse hammered against her collarbone.
This wasn’t a win.
It was the moment just before the floor gave way.
Steve spun towards Britt again. ‘Can you stay back for a quick one-on-one? Socials planning. Shouldn’t take long.’
Chelsea stepped in at once. ‘She needs to help with the website audio cuts. You know, the rewraps from this morning’s show for the podcast.’
Steve cut her off, voice syrupy and sharp. ‘Five minutes, Chels. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.’
The room froze again.
Chelsea’s mouth pressed into a hard, bloodless line. She didn’t argue. Not this time.
Steve waved his hand like he was blessing a congregation. ‘Go, go, go. Big day ahead! Blake’—his grin sharpened—‘let’s make you a star. See if we can get you on TV by the end of the week.’
Blake didn’t answer.
She couldn’t. Her throat had locked itself shut somewhere between rage and disbelief.
One by one, they filed out. Chelsea leading, Sam close behind.
Blake hesitated just long enough to catch Britt’s glance. Something flickered across her face, an expression Blake couldn’t quite read.
Steve’s door swung shut behind them with a soft click.
The corridor felt cold.
Blake fell into step behind Chelsea, the knot in her chest pulling tighter.
‘If he so much as looks at her wrong…’ Chelsea muttered low, her lips barely moving.
Blake nodded once, sharp. No words needed.
Chelsea didn’t break stride until they reached the producer desk.
Sam hovered for a second, then peeled off, nodding towards the studio.
‘I’ll start cutting the breakfast promos,’ he said, voice low but steady, professional despite everything.
Mack flopped into a spare chair, still slurping his coffee like he hadn’t noticed a thing.
Chelsea spun her laptop around, tapping the screen hard enough that the casing creaked. ‘Tracking’s in. Official numbers.’
Blake leaned in.
There it was, black and white. Spikes across every key demo.
Women 25–39: up 4.7%. Men 25–44: up 2.1%. Overall breakfast share: biggest first-week jump since 2008.
Chelsea whistled low under her breath.
‘Highest since Scotty and Dan were doing breakfast.’
Mack leaned in, eyebrows raised. ‘Back when dinosaurs roamed the earth,’ he deadpanned. ‘I don’t think there’s ever been a show bigger than those two.’
He took a lazy sip of coffee. ‘Do ya reckon they’ll network us into Sydney if we hold those sort of numbers? No wonder Steve’s frothing—his bonus would be legit.’
Blake managed a weak smile, but her pulse hadn’t slowed.
Steve wasn’t frothing. His initial reaction was so beyond his normal mercurial whiplash. Something was seriously wrong. And it scared the hell out of her.
Behind them, the office buzzed. Phones ringing, photocopiers spitting, someone in sales laughing too hard.
The sales team would be celebrating hard tonight, the prospect of a number-one show, with those demos up across the board was enough to take to market.
But underneath it all, there was another sound.
The low, skin-crawling hum of something not right.
Blake’s phone vibrated again against her thigh.
She pulled it out, thumb flicking across the screen. Then stopped.
A message from Morgan: Mum, not feeling great. Can you please pick me up early. I don’t want to be here today.
Blake’s stomach dropped. It must have been Morgan calling when she was in Steve’s office earlier, she hadn’t checked.
Morgan had never asked to leave school. Something must have happened.
The words on the screen seemed to pulse. Morgan, who’d rather sit through double maths with a migraine than miss a lesson. Morgan, who once went to school with gastro because she had a science test. That Morgan was asking to come home.
Blake pocketed the phone and crossed back towards Chelsea. ‘I need to duck out. Morgan needs me.’
Chelsea’s head snapped up, the hardness in her eyes melting. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Not sure yet,’ Blake said. ‘But I don’t want her waiting.’
Chelsea nodded once. ‘Go.’ No hesitation. No questions.
Blake turned on her heel, crossing the corridor in three quick strides.
She pushed Steve’s office door open without knocking.
Steve and Britt both startled.
‘Sorry,’ Blake said, not sure what she was interrupting. ‘Just letting you know, I’m heading out. Family thing.’
Steve blinked once, slow and reptilian, then gave her a careless thumbs-up.
Britt didn’t move.
Blake turned, leaving the door open behind her.
Outside, she fumbled for her keys, then slid behind the wheel of her car, yanking the door shut harder than necessary.
She drove on autopilot to Morgan’s school.
The sun beat down. It was one of those February days that made the asphalt shimmer.
Blake pulled in a block away from the school gates, where Morgan had dropped a pin.
She killed the engine, sitting for a moment longer than necessary, tapping her fingers once, twice, against the steering wheel.
Then she spotted her, perched on the low concrete barrier near the staff car park, hugging her iPad to her chest. Folded in on herself.
Blake got out, keeping her steps measured, non-threatening.
Morgan saw her and stood up, pushing the iPad into her bag with awkward movements.
Her shoulders rounded further, like she was bracing against invisible rain.
Blake caught the tremor in her daughter’s hands as she zipped the bag, the way her uniform blazer hung loose on her frame like she’d shrunk inside it since the morning.
They walked back to the car in silence. Blake opened the passenger door. Morgan climbed in without a word.
The car filled with the familiar scent of Morgan’s strawberry lip balm and the faint smell of new textbooks, that particular mix of fresh paper and plastic covers.
Blake pulled onto the main road in silence. She let the hum of tyres against bitumen carry them for a while.
‘You feeling sick?’ she asked after several blocks, keeping her tone light.
Morgan shrugged, small and stiff. ‘Not really. Just tired.’
Another silence.
Blake tapped the indicator, easing into a turn.
She tried again. ‘Does this have anything to do with Lucy and her little posse?’
Morgan went rigid. Her fingers wrapped tight around the strap of her bag. Blake could see her knuckles whiten in her peripheral vision.
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she said, voice flat. Final.
Blake backed off, keeping her hands steady on the wheel.
A few more streets slipped past.
Then, almost offhand, Morgan said, ‘Mum, I really want you to find him.’
Blake glanced sideways.
‘Me too, Morgs. Me too.’
Morgan loosened her death grip on her bag. The tight line of her mouth softened. It was like she just couldn’t contain the thought any longer.
At the next red light, Blake risked a glance sideways.
Morgan’s foot tapped three times against the floor mat. That familiar rhythm. The same one she’d done since she was tiny, sitting in her high chair, working through something in that brilliant, complicated mind of hers.
They were almost home when Morgan spoke again, her voice barely audible.
‘Lucy called me a robot.’
Blake’s hands stayed steady on the wheel, but her heart clenched. ‘Oh, sweetheart.’
‘She said I don’t have real feelings. That I just copy what normal people do.’
The words came out flat, matter-of-fact, but Blake could hear the hurt underneath.
‘That’s not true,’ Blake said. ‘You know that’s not true.’
Morgan’s fingers found the edge of her blazer, pulling at a loose thread. ‘Sometimes I wonder if she’s right. Like when everyone was crying at that assembly last year and I just…wasn’t. I knew it was sad. I just didn’t feel like crying.’
Blake turned into their street, choosing her words with care. ‘You feel things differently, Morgan. Not less. Just differently. And that’s okay.’
Morgan nodded, just once. A small movement, but it felt like progress.
Blake pulled into their driveway, the familiar sight of their weatherboard house was both a relief and a reminder of how hard it was to protect her daughter from the cruelty of other kids.
‘Want to watch something terrible on Netflix and eat too many Tim Tams?’ she offered.
For the first time since getting in the car, Morgan’s mouth quirked into something almost like a smile. ‘I’m not watching another Lindsay Lohan Christmas special, and I’m not sure I can face more Tim Tams.’
‘Fine, the latest National Geographic release and a bag of salt-and-vinegar chips.’
Blake turned off the engine, feeling something ease between them. Not fixed, not solved. But okay for now.