29
The studio went dark. Ad-break chatter started then faded quickly.
Blake was already standing up, headphones left behind, gripping the letter tighter.
The weight of what Steve had done, what he’d kept hidden, pressed down on her like a physical thing.
She moved through the producer bay towards the meeting room. No one tried to stop her.
Chelsea exchanged a brief glance with Britt, whose face was still drained of colour.
Blake entered the meeting room. The air was stale with abandoned coffee cups and untouched croissants. A whiteboard was stuck on yesterday’s pitch: Mystery Dad Tuesday! It felt like a bad joke.
She didn’t sit down. Just placed the envelope down on the table in front of her.
Chelsea took the seat closest to her, her phone face-down on the table. Britt slipped in, folding into a chair, like she hoped it would swallow her whole.
The door swung open behind them, too loudly.
Steve strode in, phone in hand, laughing at something only he found funny.
‘Bloody hell, who died? You all look like I pissed in your coffee,’ he said, placing two fresh coffees on the table and nudging one towards Britt, who didn’t move to take it. ‘Are Mack and Sam ditching today’s post-mortem?’
Blake said nothing. She slid the envelope forward.
Steve glanced down, the amusement on his face slipping into something sharper.
‘Ah, this,’ he said lightly. He rolled his eyes. ‘Corporate dick-waving. These kind of things come through every week.’
‘It’s addressed to me,’ Blake said, cutting across him without raising her voice. ‘Directly. From Montverre.’
Steve paused. The smirk faltered, just a little. ‘And?’
She met his eyes. Steady, cool. ‘And you hid it.’
Steve held her gaze, assessing, recalibrating. ‘Blake, it’s standard. They send those things hoping you’ll blink first. International letters—’
‘You knew,’ Blake said, even quieter now. ‘You knew exactly who he was. You knew they’d tried to reach me. You hid every single letter that might’ve resolved this.’
The room went still.
Steve’s voice dropped an octave. ‘And if I had handed them over, then what? You’d have let some prince’s legal team shut down the best story of your career?’
Blake didn’t respond.
Steve leaned back, eyes narrowing, testing. ‘You think anyone upstairs would thank you for that decision? That the listeners tuning in every morning hoping you’ll find your daughter’s daddy give a shit about your ethics? They don’t. They want drama. Blake, I protected you. All of you.’
Blake felt a sickening twist in her gut.
‘You chose ratings over my daughter’s safety,’ she said. ‘You don’t get to rewrite this.’
Britt stared down at her untouched coffee cup, visibly trembling. Chelsea hadn’t moved an inch, her gaze locked squarely on Steve.
He glanced at Britt, then back to Blake, realising how alone he was becoming. And his expression shifted, carefully, to something Blake had only ever glimpsed before. A warning. A threat.
His eyes flicked down to the envelope again, as though seeing it clearly for the first time. He pressed two fingers into the edge, creasing the thick paper, letting the tension build until the room itself seemed to hold its breath.
Then he lifted his gaze back to Blake. His voice came out dangerously soft, each word measured. ‘Where exactly did you get this?’
Blake didn’t answer. Just stared back at him, steadily, unblinking.
Steve took a slow breath. He leaned forward. His hand flattened the envelope against the table, his palm pressing down hard.
‘This,’ he said, almost conversationally, ‘was in my locked drawer. So let’s start again, Blake. How did it get from my desk, locked, private, secure, to your hands?’
Blake still didn’t speak. She felt Chelsea beside her, steady and still. She heard Britt’s breathing quicken.
Steve’s eyes narrowed. He scanned the room with cold assessment.
‘You?’ he said, turning his full attention to Chelsea. His mouth curled into something mocking, knowing. ‘Still holding a grudge about Brisbane, are you? Decided it was time for payback?’
Chelsea’s jaw tightened. She didn’t respond. Just stared at him in disgust. Blake felt a pang in her chest, a sharp twinge of confusion and hurt. Brisbane? She knew something had happened there, but nothing like this. Nothing that would leave Chelsea looking this carefully blank.
Steve watched Chelsea closely. When she didn’t take the bait, his expression shifted, dismissive now, like she wasn’t even worth his contempt. He turned, slower this time, eyes settling back on Britt.
He drummed his fingers once on the table.
She was folded in on herself, her pale fingers twisted in her lap. She stared at a spot on the table.
‘You,’ Steve said, drawing out the word like he was savouring it. ‘Well, Britt. That is a surprise.’
Her shoulders stiffened instantly. Her whole body went rigid.
Steve leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially, like he was sharing a secret only she could appreciate. ‘You think you’re safe because Blake’s here? Because Chelsea’s backing you up?’
Britt flinched.
Steve smiled at her then, slow and cruel, taking his time. ‘You sure about that? Because if we’re going to talk about professional standards, we need to discuss how you’ve been conducting yourself. It’s a far cry from professional. The way you’ve pursued me.’
Blake’s stomach lurched. She saw Britt’s eyes widen, her mouth opening in shocked denial. ‘What? Steve, no, I only…’ Britt’s voice was barely audible, her throat constricting around each word.
He leaned back, eyes flicking dismissively away from her, addressing the room at large. ‘Ask HR about the rules. Or do you think the company turns a blind eye just because you cry every time someone holds you accountable? I’ve kept all the photos you’ve sent me.’
Britt shrank further, tears springing to her eyes, shame staining her cheeks bright red. Blake felt a sickening twist of anxiety.
Steve settled back, folding his arms, cold and superior. ‘You want to keep going down this road?’ he asked. ‘We can do that. But Britt better think very carefully about what else might come out.’
Blake watched Britt’s face crumple further with humiliation, and she felt a wave of protective rage building behind her ribs. But before she could speak, before she could move, Chelsea’s voice cut through, sharp and clear and utterly composed.
‘Enough!’
Steve’s head snapped around, surprised for a split second. His smirk returned slowly, venomously. ‘Oh, now you have a problem, Chelsea?’ he sneered. ‘Funny. I would’ve thought you, of all people, would appreciate how this works.’
Chelsea’s jaw set, her gaze fixed on Steve, unwavering, her voice calm as ice. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I do know exactly how this works. Better than anyone.’
Chelsea stood up slowly, deliberately, her eyes never leaving Steve’s face.
‘You really thought Britt wouldn’t talk?’ Her voice was quiet, almost dangerously controlled. ‘That you could pull the exact same shit you pulled with me, and god knows how many other young staffers over the years, and get away with it again?’
Steve scoffed. ‘Oh, come on, Chels. Spare us the victim act. You wanted everything you got from me.’
Blake’s pulse quickened sharply, her eyes darted between them.
Steve leaned forward, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper, each word laced with calculated cruelty.
‘Don’t act like you didn’t love the attention, Chelsea.
Those late-night texts, the photos, you think I don’t keep them?
’ His mouth curled. ‘Screenshots. Emails. I’ve got them all.
Every desperate message from you, from Britt, gagging for it. ’
He turned to Britt, whose breathing had turned shallow and rapid.
‘You,’ he sneered at her, his voice thick with disdain. ‘Don’t insult us all by pretending you weren’t offering yourself up.’
Britt recoiled, tears welling.
Blake moved instinctively forward, but before she could speak, Chelsea stepped in, her voice cold and unshakable. ‘You’re right, Steve,’ Chelsea said. ‘There are screenshots. Emails. Messages. Every ugly threat, every twisted implication.’
Steve’s smirk faltered, confusion flickering briefly across his face. ‘What?’
‘They’re already with HR,’ Chelsea continued calmly. ‘Everything. Even from those years ago in Brisbane. And everything from the last few months with Britt. Fully documented, submitted and verified. HR even gave me the courtesy of letting me confront you directly first.’
Steve’s expression went slack with disbelief. Before he could react further, a quiet knock at the open door broke the heavy tension. Blake turned sharply, her heart leaping with relief as Maria from HR stepped into the room, accompanied by a uniformed security guard.
Steve’s chair scraped harshly back as he rose, panic unmistakable on his face. ‘Maria, seriously? You’re listening to this shit?’
Maria stepped forward. ‘Steve, we’ll discuss this privately. Please come with us.’
Steve jerked away, pointing a shaking finger at Blake, his voice spiralling now, uncontrolled.
‘You think this show survives without me? Those letters, I buried them because this pathetic, sob-story bullshit was all we had left! Listeners don’t tune in because of you, Blake—they tune in because I make them care! ’
The guard moved forward. Steve continued, his face contorted. ‘You’re seriously walking me out because a couple of sluts regret what they offered? Good luck keeping your precious ratings!’
Maria’s voice was firm, final. ‘Steve, we’re leaving. Now.’
The door clicked closed behind them, the ugly echo of Steve’s voice lingering briefly in the air.
Britt collapsed forward, her hands covering her face, her shoulders shaking.
Chelsea moved to her side. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered fiercely. ‘I should’ve protected you from this.’
Britt’s voice cracked, muffled behind her palms. ‘You did. Just now.’
Blake looked at Britt. Really looked at her. How many times had she walked past Steve’s closed door and known, somewhere underneath everything, that Britt was in there. And kept walking.
She thought about Chelsea. And what happened in Brisbane. All those years her best friend had carried this alone.
That bastard.
Blake stood frozen, her pulse thudding painfully. The morning crashed over her in waves. The calls. Michelle describing her Hot Prince. Filip naming Prince Leontius of Montverre.
The letters in her hand confirmed it. His Royal Highness. Cease and desist. Letters from Van Lierde & Associates, the same law firm that had sent her that convenient inheritance twelve years ago. The uncle who never existed. The money that arrived just when she needed it most desperately.
She’d done it. After weeks of searching, she’d found Leo.
He wasn’t some famous European rockstar. He was a prince. An actual prince just hanging out backstage at Eurofest, before returning to his royal duties. And she’d been, what exactly? A week of fun, a quick break from reality?
The same law firm. The same letterhead. Twelve years of silence, then these threats the moment she got close to the truth. Leo had known where she was this whole time. He’d always known how to find her.
Which meant he’d always known about Morgan.
Her daughter. Their daughter. Morgan, who’d given Blake permission to take this search public, who’d wanted to find her dad as much as Blake had wanted to find him for her.
The man she’d fallen in love with during that perfect week didn’t exist. And Prince Leontius of Montverre wanted nothing to do with his Australian mistake.
How would she ever tell Morgan?