THE COUNCIL
Not tense. Not panicked. Calculated.
Everyone in the room knew how to recognize when a victory was slipping just enough to become a liability.
And right now?
It was slipping.
Porter broke the silence first. “This looks bad.” His voice was even, but the irritation behind it was evident. “A pretty, white, blonde college girl getting killed at one of our rallies?” He shook his head. “People won’t like it.”
He wasn’t wrong.
This wasn’t some nameless protestor in a sea of dissent.
This was optics.
And optics could make or break everything.
Tate sat back, tapping a finger against his glass, considering.
Porter continued, his pen rapping lightly against the table. “We can still spin it.” His voice was tight, controlled. “She was killed in the chaos they created. We don’t let them turn this into a martyr story. We control the tone—make it about restoring order, not assigning blame.”
“The site is still hacked,” another cut in, clearly irritated. “The videos are still spreading. We can’t get ahead of it if we don’t get control back first.”
A deep, frustrated sigh.
“Then take it back,” Tate said, voice clipped. “I don’t care how you do it. Do it.”
One of the aides nodded stiffly. “Our teams are already working on it, but whoever’s behind this? They’re good. Very good. Every time we override, they push back.”
Selene’s fingers stilled on her tablet.
The screen flickered.
A frozen frame of the girl on pavement.
Blood seeping into the concrete.
Hair fanned out like a shattered halo.
“She’s not dead,” Selene said, cutting through the noise.
The room stilled.
“Not yet anyway,” Selene eyes were locked onto her tablet, learning the news in real-time. “They took her to the hospital.”
Tate’s jaw tightened. “And if she dies?”
Selene tilted her head slightly, her dark eyes flickering. “Then we get ahead of it before it becomes something we can’t contain.”
“We have another problem,” one intelligence aide said.
Tate exhaled sharply. “Of course we do.”
The aide didn’t hesitate. “Oakland Pratt.”
The name settled.
A heavy pause.
“Who?” Tate eyed Porter, searching for the missing puzzle piece.
“Bishop Pratt’s daughter. He warned us that she was having some, uh, struggles,” Porter muttered, voice low. “But he said that she wouldn’t be a problem.”
Tate’s jaw twitched. “What are you telling me, Porter?”
The screen flickered.
A series of freeze-frames.
Oakland, ripping that man off Derek.
Oakland, fighting through the crowd.
Oakland, standing firm while the chaos erupted around her.
“She’s getting attention,” Porter muttered, clicking through the torrent of news clips.
“The underground media is running with it,” an advisor added, voice clipped. “They’re painting her as a symbol—a daughter cast out, fighting back against the system that tried to erase her.”
“They’re romanticizing her,” someone else muttered, disgusted.
“It’s more than that,” Selene said, voice flat. “They’re weaponizing her.”
She paused, eyes locked on the screen. “This wasn’t random. Someone picked her out from thousands of live feeds and broadcasted in real-time. They were waiting for this.”
Tate’s grip on his glass tightened.
“She’s not just a protester,” Selene murmured, watching the screen with sharp, assessing eyes. “She’s the daughter of a man who stood on that stage and lost his credibility in real-time.”
She set her tablet down. A slight sound, barely noticeable, but enough to mark the weight of her next words. “She’s going to become the face of this.”
Tate scoffed. “Over my dead body.”
Silence.
Then, one of the aides nodded.
“Start digging,” he said. “Find out where she’s been, who she’s been with. If anything in her past makes her less… palatable.”
Tate rolled his shoulders back, an idea forming. “I can help with damage control.”
He straightened his cuffs, smoothing out any sign of hesitation. “I’ll go to the hospital,” he said.
A few glances flickered his way, but no one objected.
“We bring a small, controlled press crew,” he continued, his voice calm, decisive. “I’ll check on the injured girl, offer my condolences, make it clear this was a tragedy, not a targeted attack.”
Porter nodded. “Smart. Keep the focus on the accident, not the escalation.”
“Exactly. We will affirm that this was not a hate crime,” Tate added. “The last thing we need is them twisting the narrative. We get ahead of it—make sure people know we care.”
Then, with a slight smirk, he said, “Hopefully, the girl had some alcohol in her system. We can say she was drunk.”
Porter huffed a laugh. “That would certainly help.”
Selene, however, remained still. “It’s a bad idea.”
Tate arched a brow. “Going to the hospital?”
Selene tilted her head, studying him. “Walking into a situation you can’t control.”
Tate scoffed. “You think I can’t handle a hospital visit?”
“I think,” she said, voice smooth, calm, “you’re underestimating how quickly this can turn on you.”
A beat of silence.
Then Porter cut in. “It’s the right move. Public sympathy matters.”
Selene didn’t look at him.
She only looked at Tate.
Tate held her gaze. Cool. Confident. Certain.
Then, without another word, Selene leaned back in her chair, her lips curving into something unreadable.
Tate tapped a slow rhythm against the table with one finger, like he was considering his next move—but the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth made it clear.
His mind was made up.
Then, finally, he leaned forward.
“I’ll see you at dinner tonight,” he said, smooth as glass, like she hadn’t just warned him. Like her words were ornamental. Background noise.
He gave a polite, empty smile. “You always set a lovely table.”
A low murmur moved through the room—quiet approval disguised as civility.
Selene didn’t react at first. Didn’t even blink. But then, just for a second, he saw it.
The flicker of irritation. The controlled pause before she picked up her pen and idly clicked it against the table.
Not answering. Not dignifying it.
Tate let the laughter settle before glancing around the table. This wasn’t just about optics anymore.
Now, it was about proving a point. And making sure she knew exactly where she stood.
?