31
Blake turned into the station’s underground car-park entrance. Her breath caught. Reporters surged at her from nowhere, a crush of bodies and cameras blocking the ramp, illuminated by her headlights slicing through the dark. Her foot hit the brake.
A reporter lunged at the driver-side window, microphone thrust towards the glass, muffled voices spilling through.
‘Blake! Can you confirm this royal story was all just a radio-ratings stunt?’
Another shouted louder, fighting through the crowd. ‘Is it true the palace is demanding DNA samples?’
Blake’s pulse surged. Cameras flashed in rapid succession, white bursts burning her vision, faces distorted by glass and shadows pressing too close.
A woman pressed herself against the windscreen, yelling through cupped hands, ‘Prince Leontius has denied knowing you! Would you like to comment, Blake?’
Blake flinched. The words landed sharp and vicious. Her stomach twisted. She was trapped, exposed, but rage flared beneath her panic.
A young reporter yelled, ‘Will your daughter take the title of princess?’
Her chest tightened. They weren’t just swarming her, they were baiting her, pushing for a reaction.
She squeezed her eyes shut, counting her breaths, trying to force calm into her limbs. It didn’t come. The car felt smaller with every heartbeat. Her fingers trembled against the wheel.
The smell of exhaust fumes seeped through the vents. The concrete walls seemed to press closer.
She hesitated a second more before slamming her palm onto the horn, holding it while the long blast echoed through the car park. The reporters scattered, startled enough for her to jerk the car forward as the boom gate lifted, recognising her number plate as though oblivious to the chaos.
The car surged through, and the roller door closed behind her. She parked, cut the engine and sat stunned in the empty, fluorescent-lit car park, her breath harsh and raw.
A moment later Blake swung her door open and sprinted to the fire exit.
She took the concrete stairs two at a time until she reached the heavy door at the top.
She swiped her pass against the reader, and the lock clicked open with mechanical indifference.
She pushed through into the station corridor.
The muffled quiet closed in around her. Even this early, the building was usually humming with anticipation, but today it was hushed, like everyone was waiting for the next explosion.
Blake turned into the producer bay, still gripping her pass, the plastic edges digging into her palm. Just inside the doorway, her eyes found the whiteboard across the room.
It was filled with more detail than she’d ever seen. Photos of Leo—Prince Leontius, she reminded herself—covered one side, each image accompanied by handwritten notes and printed news headlines. Words like Montverre, Royal Succession, Prince Leo circled in red marker.
Someone, Chelsea or Britt probably, had printed a large aerial shot of Montverre Palace, and pinned it beneath a glossy royal family portrait. Arrows and coloured strings connected clues and theories in an organised frenzy that felt invasive.
Blake’s gaze landed on the photo from the footy, the grainy image of Leo and her at the MCG, looking at each other like the rest of the world didn’t exist. A caption had been scrawled beside it in Britt’s handwriting: Confirmed Leo = Prince Leontius. Next move?
Blake felt ill. After yesterday at the museum, an image of her daughter’s startled face was flashed across the evening news, this obsession on the whiteboard felt wrong, like a cruel joke at Morgan’s expense.
She stared at it, guilt and exhaustion tightening her throat. Morgan wasn’t a name on a whiteboard. She wasn’t a puzzle to solve. And yet here it was, their private lives pinned, dissected, arranged for public consumption.
The distant murmur of voices reached her then, pulling her from her spiral. Through the glass wall, she spotted Chelsea, Mack and Sam gathered near the studio desk, their expressions tight and serious, the conversation urgent.
Blake hesitated just a beat longer, exhaling. She forced herself forward, each step harder than the last and pushed through into the studio.
The conversation stopped. Three faces turned towards her, their expressions cautious, tense.
Sam gave her a reassuring nod, his eyes careful. Mack leaned against the desk, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. Chelsea stood apart, clipboard in hand, her posture stiff and cautious, as if holding the weight of something Blake couldn’t yet see.
Blake forced herself to speak. ‘Well, they’re out in force this morning,’ she said. ‘We’re officially international news, apparently.’
Chelsea exhaled, glancing at Sam, then back to Blake. ‘We saw them on the monitors. I’m sorry, Blake. I thought we’d have more time.’
Blake waved her off, not trusting herself to respond. Her gaze drifted towards Mack, who cleared his throat.
‘Look, Blakey,’ he said, hesitant, his eyes going to Chelsea before returning to Blake.
‘Before we get stuck into it, I want to say something quick.’ He paused.
‘I’ve got no bloody idea what went down yesterday with Steve, but I reckon upstairs actually got this one right, putting Chels in as acting content director.
’ He turned to Chelsea. ‘Steve was always a dick, and you’ve done bloody good things for this show, Chels. ’
Blake blinked, the news catching her off guard. Her eyes snapped back to Chelsea, warmth and pride in her friend overriding the anxiety gripping her chest. ‘Acting content director?’ she echoed, a small smile breaking through the strain. ‘About bloody time, Chels.’
Chelsea’s cheeks flushed, a flicker of gratitude in her eyes. ‘Thanks, Mack. Thanks, Blake.’
The sincerity lasted only a heartbeat before Mack picked up his usual bravado. ‘Right, well, now that we’ve had our little moment, first order of business when you take the gig permanently, Chels, my headshot goes straight back on the billboard.’
Sam snorted, shaking his head. ‘Moment over.’
Blake’s tiny spark of amusement faded almost instantly. She glanced at the muted studio TV screens, the rolling coverage flickering above the panel desk. Her pulse quickened as footage of the media scrum outside their station appeared.
Then it cut to a live, aerial shot of Morgan’s school gates, with reporters clustered at the front entrance.
Blake’s heart lurched. She grabbed her phone, fingers trembling as she dialled Morgan’s number.
Blake’s heart kicked with every unanswered ring. She pressed the phone tighter against her ear, her eyes fixed on the silent studio screens above the panel desk. Each ring felt longer, colder.
Finally, Morgan’s voice came through, thick with sleep and confusion. ‘Mum?’
Blake exhaled, guilt rising alongside relief. She glanced again at the muted TV, where reporters jostled at the school gates.
‘Sweetheart, listen to me,’ she said, urgent but gentle. ‘I’m sorry to wake you, but there’s media at your school already. They must have recognised your uniform at the museum yesterday. It’s bad, Morgan. I need you to listen carefully, okay?’
‘Okay,’ Morgan mumbled, awake now.
‘I’ll book you an Uber,’ Blake continued, words tumbling faster as her fear rose. ‘It’ll be there at 8.00. Please don’t speak to anyone. I’ll arrange for Mr Harris to meet you at the side gate. He’ll make sure you get in safely. Got it?’
‘Yeah, got it,’ Morgan answered. She sounded more alert now. Blake could hear faint movement, Morgan sitting up in bed.
‘Please be careful, Morgan. I love you.’
A long pause followed. Blake could picture Morgan’s stiff, uncomfortable nod on the other end.
‘I know what I’m doing, Mum,’ Morgan said, her voice quiet but steady. ‘I’ve been watching this play out too. Bye.’
The line went dead. Blake stared at the phone, caught off guard by Morgan’s tone, not just cautious, but aware. Sharp.
Her hands still trembling, she scrolled through her phone contacts, tapping on the name ‘Fetticcine Guy’.
She typed fast: Media at school, can you please meet Morgan at the side gate? I’m so sorry, thank you.
Blake hit send and stared at the screen until the reassuring tick confirmed delivery. She forced her attention back to the studio team.
All three faces, Chelsea, Sam and Mack, were watching her. Blake could sense their tension, their shared dread of what was coming. This was no longer just a segment. It was spiralling beyond their control.
The familiar show opener swept through Blake’s headphones, the energetic melody at odds with the weight in her chest. She took a deep breath, gripping the edge of the console, steadying herself as the red ON AIR light flashed to life.
Mack leaned forward, shifting into his well-practised radio voice. ‘Good morning! It’s just ticked past 6.00, Mack and Blake with you, and Blakey, you’re all over the news this morning. Reporters at the station doors, cameras at every angle. Looks like we finally found Leo.’
Blake drew a tight breath. ‘Yeah, we did,’ she said, her voice quieter than she intended.
She forced steadiness back into her tone, swallowing the lump forming in her throat.
‘Look, this isn’t how I imagined this whole thing would go.
When I first opened up about Leo, I just wanted to share something beautiful from my past. This summer love that stayed with me.
A bloke I fell for way too fast, and who you all fell for too. ’
She paused, feeling the rawness edging into her voice. ‘But it’s been thirteen years, and this isn’t just my story anymore. It affects other people now, people I never intended to hurt, especially my daughter. And it’s got bigger and louder than I ever thought it would.’
She drew another breath, measured, her tone firm but pleading. ‘I want to speak to my peers in the media. I know you have a job to do, and I respect that. But please, give us space. Give us some privacy. This is all pretty intense, and right now it needs to be just between Leo, my daughter and me.’
Blake’s voice warmed, gratitude clear beneath the strain. ‘And to this city, I don’t know how to thank you for the way you’ve supported me, not just through this story but throughout my whole career. You’ve had my back, shared my laughs, cried my tears. Your loyalty means everything.’
She could feel herself vulnerable, but she stayed firm.
‘But right now, I need a moment to breathe. A beat to process these last few weeks and especially this royal twist. So we’re switching off the phone lines for today.
Mack and I will still bring you all the usual fun and laughs, but just know, when I’m ready to talk, I promise you’ll be the first to hear from me. ’
Sam nodded from behind the panel, sliding the fader down, cutting their mics. The familiar click of the switch sounded in the sudden quiet as the ON AIR light went dark.
Then Sam hit play on the next track, filling the studio with Chappell Roan’s glittery anthem, bright and defiant, exactly the energy Blake wished she could summon.
She felt hollowed out as the show rolled on around her. She glanced at Sam, who was watching her, his eyes steady and calm, ready to jump in if she needed him. She felt a wave of gratitude. They were almost through the show. No further disasters.
Then Blake’s eyes flicked up to the muted studio screens, and her breath caught.
The footage cut from outside their station doors to the gates of Morgan’s school.
Morgan was stepping from the Uber with her blazer raised over her face.
Mr Harris was close beside her with one protective arm outstretched, shielding her from the cameras.
Blake’s heart sank, guilt rising like bile in her throat.
Her daughter. On every screen. Hunted.
She felt trapped, powerless in the face of Morgan’s silent distress.
Then, before she could catch her breath, the footage cut again.
This time it showed Melbourne Airport, an earlier scene, replayed now. A sleek private jet sat on the tarmac, stairs lowered, security personnel forming a ring around a solitary figure.
Recognition sliced through her.
Leo.
She could see him, unmistakably Leo, even with his head down and surrounded by security. Blake’s pulse thumped, disbelief and anger twisting together.
What the hell was he doing here? She looked to Chelsea, whose expression mirrored Blake’s stunned panic. Sam’s eyes widened in surprise.
The red ON AIR light blinked, harsh and immediate. Mack’s voice rambled in her headphones: ‘…and honestly, anyone who eats pineapple on pizza really needs a serious look in the mirror.’
A frantic message flashed across Blake’s screen from Chelsea: You need to take just this call.
Blake stared at the words, dread pooling in her stomach. Her eyes found Sam’s. He was watching her, waiting for her approval. She hesitated, then gave him the faintest nod.
Sam’s finger punched the button, cutting across Mack’s cheerful babble mid-sentence.
The studio fell silent, one long, breathless beat of nothing.
Then, soft, achingly gentle, Leo’s voice filled her headphones. ‘Emily?’
Her lungs emptied. The studio tilted. That voice, unchanged after thirteen years, using her real name, it felt so foreign on air.
‘You said you would always be easy to find. I am sorry I have been more difficult. I wanted…’
Her body reacted before her mind could catch up. Heat flooded her chest. Her hands clenched. Thirteen years of silence, of raising Morgan alone, of wondering, and now he was here, on her show, calling her Emily like just a few weeks had passed.
The professional broadcaster in her tried to respond. Tried to maintain composure. But the mother in her, the woman who’d been abandoned, who’d just watched her daughter hunted by media because of him—that woman won.
Rage flooded her throat. The audacity of him calling in like this, live, making it public, forcing her hand. After thirteen years of nothing.
‘Difficult to find, ha! Sam, dump the fuc…’
Sam slammed the dump button. Leo’s voice cut away, gone in the three-second delay that protects live radio from exactly this moment. Music crashed in to fill the gap, Olivia Rodrigo’s defiant track flooding her headphones.
Blake lurched out of her chair, her headphones clattering to the console as she pushed away from the desk, her breath ragged, eyes burning with humiliation and rage. Mack stared at her, speechless. Sam sat stunned.
Blake’s chest heaved. The studio was too bright, too full of people who’d just witnessed her completely lose it. She couldn’t look at them. Couldn’t explain. Couldn’t do anything but get the hell out of there.
She stormed through the studio airlock and out into the corridor, anger and hurt engulfing her as she went.