3. The Milo Catalyst
The Milo Catalyst
SLOANE
The green room at NovaWave always smells like expensive industrial carpet cleaner and the vaguely metallic scent of air that’s been recycled through too many high-end filters.
It’s a room designed for waiting, for nerves, for the frantic last-minute checking of notes.
But right now, it’s a crime scene. Or at least, it feels like one to me.
Cooper Ellis is sitting on the floor. Not the designer mid-century modern chairs Graham spent a small fortune on to make the talent feel ‘elevated,’ but the floor.
His long legs are folded in a way that should look uncomfortable, his charcoal henley straining slightly across his shoulders as he leans forward.
And there, sitting directly across from him, is Milo.
Milo doesn't do strangers. My son is a fortress of six-year-old skepticism, a child who usually requires a minimum three-visit vetting process before he’ll even show someone his favorite rock collection.
Yet, here he is, holding up a decapitated LEGO Batman with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious relics.
"He lost his head in the Great Sinkhole of the Sofa," Milo says, his voice carrying that high, joyful frequency that usually makes my chest ache with a mix of love and exhaustion. "But he still has his utility belt. That’s the most important part."
Cooper nods with a gravity that I find deeply suspicious.
He doesn't look up when I enter. He doesn't perform the 'good guy' routine for my benefit.
He stays focused on the plastic caped crusader.
"The belt is the brain of the operation, Milo.
Without the belt, you're just a guy in a bat-suit. With the belt, you're a tactician."
Tactician. He’s using three-syllable words with my son. I stand in the doorway, my bag still heavy on my shoulder, feeling like I’ve walked into a parallel universe where my carefully curated walls have been bypassed by a man who looks like he’s been airbrushed by a summer sunset.
"Milo," I say, my voice sharper than I intended. It’s the ‘mom’ voice, the one meant to remind him of the rules, the schedules, the safety of our small, two-person unit. "We need to get going. You know the Tuesday routine."
Milo finally looks at me, but his eyes immediately dart back to Cooper. "Mom, Cooper knows about the Multiverse. He says Batman might have another head in a different timeline. We’re searching for the portal."
I look at Cooper. He finally looks up, and the eye contact is like a sudden shift in atmospheric pressure. His eyes are a warm, steady hazel, and there’s no smirk there, no smugness about his victory over my son’s affections. There’s just... openness. It’s infuriating.
"Searching for portals is a full-time job," Cooper says, pushing himself up from the floor with a fluidity that makes me feel suddenly, acutely aware of my own rigid posture. "I was just helping with the logistics."
"Logistics," I repeat, the word tasting like copper on my tongue. "Right. Because nothing says 'authentic lifestyle influencer' like LEGO logistics. Milo, bag. Now."
Milo scrambles to gather his toys, but he stops to give Cooper a high-five. A high-five. My son hasn't high-fived his own father in six months, mostly because Noah treats every interaction like a performance review. Cooper meets the small palm with a gentle clap, then steps back to give us space.
Tessa slides into the room behind me, her energy a frantic, buzzing contrast to the heavy stillness I’m trying to maintain.
She’s holding her tablet like a shield, her thumb flying across the glass.
She doesn't look at the domestic scene; she looks at me with the expression of someone delivering news about a structural failure in a skyscraper.
"Sloane, we have a problem," Tessa says, her voice low but urgent. "Actually, we have a campaign. The network just pushed the 'Relaunch Week' assets to the main servers. It's live, Sloane. It’s all over the internal socials, and the press releases are hitting the trades in twenty minutes."
The oxygen seems to vanish, leaving the studio air thin and metallic. "The relaunch? We haven't even had a pre-production meeting. I haven't signed off on the creative brief."
Tessa bites her lip, a tell that means the situation is worse than she’s saying. "They bypassed us. Graham and Rhea. They’re calling it 'The Donovan-Ellis Exchange.' The tagline is... well, it's 'Truth meets Heart.' They’ve already bought the billboard space on the 401."
Truth meets Heart. I want to gag. I’m the Truth—hard, jagged, clinical. He’s the Heart—soft, golden, marketable. It’s a branding exercise designed to cannibalize everything I’ve built. I turn to Cooper, ready to find him preening, ready to accuse him of being the architect of this ambush.
But he’s looking at Tessa's tablet, his jaw set in a hard line that doesn't look like sunshine at all. His brow is furrowed, a deep crease appearing between his eyes that suggests he’s doing some very fast, very uncomfortable math in his head.
"They didn't tell me it was going live today," Cooper says, his voice losing its easy warmth.
He looks at me, and for the first time, I see a flicker of something that looks like genuine regret.
"Sloane, I knew they were moving fast, but I didn't realize they were cutting you out of the loop entirely. "
"Oh, please," I snap, the defensive reflex kicking in before I can stop it. "Don't play the innocent bystander. You're the shiny new toy, Cooper. You're the reason the loop is being redesigned. Don't tell me you aren't enjoying the view from the billboard."
He takes a step toward me. He’s taller than he looks on screen, his presence filling the space between us until I can smell the faint, clean scent of cedar and something citrusy.
It’s the kind of scent that belongs in a cabin in the woods, not this glass-and-steel cage.
He doesn't crowd me, but he doesn't back down either.
"I’m not the enemy, Sloane," he says, his voice dropping into a register that feels uncomfortably intimate. "I know you think I’m here to dilute your brand. But I’m here because I actually like the show.
I’m here because you're the best at what you do, even if you are the most difficult person I’ve ever met. "
"Difficult is just a word people use for women who don't smile on command," I say, my pulse doing a frantic, rhythmic thrum against my collarbone. I hate how close he is. I hate that I can see the slight gold flecks in his eyes. "And I’m not difficult. I’m precise. There’s a difference."
Cooper doesn't blink. "Then be precise with me. Tell me what you need to keep the integrity of the show. I’ll follow your lead on air. I’m not trying to take the mic, Sloane. I’m trying to hold it steady while you do your thing. Give me a chance to be your wingman before you decide I’m a saboteur."
It’s a good pitch—sincere, well-timed, and delivered with a directness that makes my skin itch with the urge to believe him.
But I’ve spent years watching men use sincerity as a Trojan horse.
My former mentor had the most sincere eyes in the business right before he sold my private breakdown to the highest bidder.
I open my mouth to give him a rebuttal that will strip the paint off the walls, but a small, sticky hand tugs at my sleeve.
I’d forgotten Milo was still there, a silent observer to the grown-up tension vibrating in the air.
He’s looking up at Cooper with a wide, hopeful expression that makes my stomach do a slow, agonizing flip.
"Mom, is Cooper coming to dinner?" Milo asks, his voice loud and clear in the sudden silence. "He said he knows how to make the LEGO Batman head stay on with a special trick. And we have pizza on Tuesdays. Everyone likes pizza."
I freeze. The 'Tuesday routine' is sacred. It is the one night of the week where the world stops, where the podcast doesn't exist, where it’s just me and Milo and a pepperoni pie from the place on the corner. It is my bunker. And my son has just opened the door and invited the invading army inside.
Tessa makes a small, strangled sound that I know is a repressed squeal. She’s a 'shipper' at heart, a woman who views my life as a romantic comedy that’s been stuck in the dark first act for too long. She’s looking at Cooper, then at me, her eyebrows practically reaching her hairline.
I look at Cooper, expecting him to make an excuse, to find a way out of the social awkwardness of a six-year-old’s dinner invitation. He’s a bachelor in the city. He probably has a gym session or a date with someone who doesn't have LEGO Batman's decapitated head in their pocket. He should say no.
Instead, he looks at Milo, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face—the first one that feels like it wasn't made for a camera. It’s a soft expression, one that makes him look younger, less like a 'lifestyle influencer' and more like the kind of guy who actually would spend an hour fixing a toy for no reason other than it needed fixing.
"I do like pizza," Cooper says, his eyes drifting back to mine. There’s a challenge there now, a quiet, playful dare that says he knows exactly how much this is rattling me. "And I’m very good at the Batman trick. But only if it's okay with your mom. She's the boss of the logistics, remember?"
He puts the ball firmly in my court. He makes me the villain if I say no, the grumpy gatekeeper of Milo’s happiness. It’s a brilliant tactical move, whether he intended it or not. I look at Milo’s hopeful face, then at Tessa’s frantic nodding, then at Cooper’s steady, hazel gaze.
"Fine," I say, the word feeling like a surrender. "Pizza. Six o'clock. But if you mention 'synergy' or 'brand alignment' once, I’m putting you out with the recycling. And don't be late. Milo doesn't do late."
Cooper’s smile widens, and for a second, the light in the green room feels almost too bright. "Six o'clock sharp, Sloane. I wouldn't dream of being late for a tactical briefing."
I turn and usher Milo out of the room before I can change my mind, before the hyperawareness of Cooper’s presence starts to feel like a physical weight.
As I walk down the hallway, the click of my heels on the linoleum feels like a countdown.
I’m letting him into my home. I’m letting him into my life.
And I have the sinking, terrifying feeling that once Cooper Ellis is inside, he’s not going to be easy to get out.
I don't look back, but I can feel his eyes on me all the way to the elevator. It’s not the feeling of being watched by a predator; it’s the feeling of being seen by someone who is looking for the cracks in my armor. And the worst part is, I think he just found the biggest one.
We reach the car, and Milo is humming a song about superheroes.
He’s happy. He’s excited. He’s already moved on to the next thing, oblivious to the fact that he just dismantled my entire defense strategy with one sentence.
I climb into the driver’s seat, my hands gripping the wheel tight enough to make my knuckles turn white.
"Mom?" Milo asks as I pull out of the parking garage. "Do you think Cooper can fly? He has really big shoulders. Like Superman."
"He can't fly, Milo," I say, looking at the city skyline as the sun begins to dip behind the buildings, painting everything in shades of deceptive, beautiful gold. "He’s just a guy. A guy who turns up the volume too high and shines too bright, like a headlight in the dark."
But as I drive toward home, I can't shake the image of Cooper sitting on the floor, his head bowed with my son's.
It was a moment of peace in a day that had been nothing but war.
And as much as I want to hate it, as much as I want to fight the 'Truth meets Heart' narrative, I’m starting to realize that the Heart might be a lot harder to ignore than I thought.
I spend the drive home cataloging the things I need to hide. The laundry on the sofa. The half-finished research papers on the dining table. The parts of myself that I don't let anyone see. I’m a careful person. I document things. I keep the files locked.
But tonight, the files are going to be open. And as the city lights begin to flicker on, I realize that for the first time in years, I’m not sure I have a contingency plan for what happens next.
I pull into my driveway, the small brick house looking suddenly vulnerable. It’s my space. My rules. But as I help Milo out of the car, I know that at six o'clock, the door is going to open. And I have no idea if I’m ready for whatever Cooper Ellis is going to bring through it.