16. Livestream Sabotage
Livestream Sabotage
COOPER
The studio lights at NovaWave aren't designed for comfort; they're designed to make everything look expensive, clinical, and impossible to hide from.
Today, they feel like heat lamps in a terrarium, baking the moisture right out of my skin.
I adjusted the collar of my henley, the fabric suddenly too heavy, and looked over at Sloane.
She was staring at her reflection in the darkened glass of the control booth, her mouth a thin, sharp line that usually meant someone was about to get dissected.
"Ten seconds…" Inez called out from the speakers. Her voice was the only thing in this building that didn't sound like it had been polished by a PR firm. It was dry, steady, and currently the only thing keeping my pulse from behaving like a runaway train.
"You ready for the 'Co-host Challenge'?" I asked, trying to inject a dose of my usual optimism into the space between us. It felt like trying to light a match in a vacuum. Sloane didn't look at me. She just adjusted her headphones, the plastic clicking in the silence.
"It's a livestream, Cooper. Not a hostage negotiation," she said, though the way she gripped the edge of the mahogany desk suggested she wasn't entirely sure of the difference.
She looked lethal in a structured blazer that probably cost more than my first car, her eyes narrowed at the lens of the 4K camera positioned between us.
"Three, two..." Inez signaled, and the red tally light on the camera snapped to life like a predatory eye.
"Good afternoon, truth-seekers." Sloane said, her voice dropping into that smooth, authoritative register that had made her a star.
It was her 'anchor' voice—the one that sounded like a warm blanket draped over a bed of nails.
"I'm Sloane Donovan, and unfortunately, the rumors are true. I'm sharing my airwaves today."
I leaned into the frame, flashing the grin that my sister Lena calls my 'professional golden retriever' look.
"And I'm Cooper Ellis. We're here for the NovaWave Co-host Challenge, which, as I understand it, is basically a series of increasingly difficult questions designed to see if we've learned anything about each other in the last two weeks or if we're still just two strangers sharing a very expensive microphone. "
The comment section on the side monitor began to scroll—a blurred waterfall of emojis and usernames.
Most were positive, buzzing about the 'electric friction' the network had been marketing like it was the next big pharmaceutical breakthrough.
But I kept my eyes on Sloane. She was performing, yes, but I could see the slight tremor in her hands before she tucked them under the desk.
"Let's start with something easy" I said, reading from the tablet Rhea Saye had personally curated for the event. "Sloane, what is my go-to order when I'm pretending to be healthy at the cafe downstairs?"
Sloane didn't even blink. "A kale and ginger smoothie that tastes like mown grass and regret, which you then supplement with a hidden chocolate croissant three minutes later."
I laughed, a genuine sound that echoed in the acoustically treated room. "I feel seen. And slightly judged. But mostly seen."
"That's the Donovan brand, Cooper. High-definition judgment," she replied, and for a second, a real spark of amusement touched her eyes.
It was a bookmark moment—the kind of look that made the two weeks of icy silences and corporate maneuvering feel like a distant memory.
I wanted to reach across the desk and just touch her hand, a simple acknowledgment of the truce we'd signed in the dark of Studio B the night before.
Then the scrolling on the monitor slowed, then accelerated into a frantic, jagged rhythm.
I saw it first. A username, TruthSeeker88, popped up in bright, neon text.
It wasn't a question about my favorite color or Sloane's investigative methods.
It was a single, devastating sentence: 'Ask Sloane about the time she begged Marcus not to air the tape of her crying over her failed marriage—before he sold it to the highest bidder. '
The air in the room didn't just turn cold; it vanished.
Sloane's face went the color of bleached bone, her features sharpening into a mask of pure, static shock.
Her gaze stayed fixed on the camera, but the light in her eyes went out, replaced by a vacant, glazed terror—the look of someone watching their own execution in high-definition.
She wasn't in the studio anymore. She was back in that moment of betrayal she'd trusted me with only hours ago.
The comments were exploding now. 'Is that true?' 'Link to the audio?' 'I heard she was a mess.' The digital mob was scenting blood, and Sloane was frozen, a deer caught in the high-beams of her own career.
I looked at the glass. Rhea Saye was standing there, her arms crossed, her expression a mask of 'practiced concern' that looked far too much like satisfaction. She wasn't stopping it. She was letting it burn.
"You know," I said, my voice cutting through the silence like a dull blade, "speaking of failed attempts at perfection, did I ever tell you about the time I tried to live-tweet my first marathon and ended up accidentally streaming a fifteen-minute video of my own shoes while I was being treated for dehydration in a medical tent? "
I didn't wait for her to answer. I leaned forward, physically blocking her from the camera's primary focus, drawing the lens toward my own animated, desperate storytelling.
"There's a picture out there—if you dig deep enough into the archives of 2015—of me covered in Gatorade and silver Mylar, looking exactly like a very sad baked potato.
It's the least 'No-Bull' moment in human history. "
I kept talking. I spun a ridiculous, self-deprecating yarn about athletic failure and the absurdity of public image, weaving in every joke I'd ever told at a bar to distract people from a fight.
I played the sunshine role to the point of exhaustion, watching the comment section slowly shift from Sloane's past to my own supposed buffoonery.
'Baked potato Cooper' began to trend. The immediate crisis was receding, replaced by the safer, shallower waters of my own manufactured embarrassment.
Under the desk, I felt a hand brush against my knee.
It was Sloane's. Her fingers were ice-cold, trembling against the denim of my jeans, but she gripped me with a strength that felt like a lifeline.
I didn't move. I didn't acknowledge it to the camera.
I just kept talking, anchored by that small, desperate contact.
"And that," I finished, my throat feeling like it was lined with sandpaper, "is why I am no longer allowed to use a GoPro without adult supervision. We're going to take a quick break to check our tech—Inez says my mic is picking up the sound of my own ego expanding. We'll be right back."
The red light died. Sloane didn't wait for the 'clear.' She ripped her headphones off, the cord snapping against the desk, and bolted for the door. She didn't look at me, but the ghost of her touch still burned on my leg.
I stood up, my joints feeling like they'd been rusted shut. I didn't go after her. I went straight for the glass booth. Rhea was already on her phone, her thumb flying across the screen, but Tessa was there too, her face a mask of fury that matched the storm brewing in my own chest.
"What the hell was that, Rhea?" I demanded, my voice low and dangerous. I was a big guy, and I used every inch of it now, looming over the console. "That comment was specific. It was surgical. Someone didn't just guess that—they knew exactly what to say to break her."
Rhea didn't even look up. " It's the internet, Cooper. People are cruel. If Sloane can't handle a few trolls, she's in the wrong business. Besides, look at the numbers. Engagement is up four hundred percent."
"She isn't an engagement metric," I hissed. "She's a person. And that comment came from inside this building."
Rhea finally met my eyes, her gaze as cold as a mountain lake. " Careful, Cooper. Accusations like that require proof. And right now, your job is to get back out there and finish the segment. The audience wants a show."
She brushed past me, the scent of her expensive, cloying perfume lingering like a threat. I turned to Tessa, who was staring at a secondary monitor, her eyes narrowed at a string of code I didn't understand.
"She's right about one thing," Tessa whispered, her voice shaking with a different kind of intensity.
"It wasn't a random troll. I just pulled the IP trace on the account.
It's masked, but the packet origin is coming from the NovaWave guest Wi-Fi.
Someone was sitting in the lobby or the breakroom when they posted that. "
The realization hit me like a physical weight in my gut. This wasn't just a leak. It was a targeted strike, coordinated to happen while Sloane was at her most exposed. The 'Donovan—Contingency' folder wasn't just a backup plan; it was an active weapon.
" Where is she? "I asked.
" The roof," Tessa said, not looking up from her screen. " She always goes to the roof when she feels like the walls are closing in. Cooper—be careful. She doesn't just have walls up right now. She's building a fortress."
I didn't answer. I took the stairs two at a time, my lungs burning, the clinical air of the office building feeling more like a cage with every floor I passed.
I burst through the heavy metal door to the roof, the sudden roar of the city traffic and the biting wind of the afternoon hitting me like a bucket of cold water.
Sloane was standing by the edge, her back to me, her hands gripping the rusted railing so hard her knuckles were white.
The wind was whipping her hair across her face, but she didn't move.
She looked small against the skyline—a tiny, fierce point of resistance against a city that wanted to consume her.
"Sloane" I said softly.
"Don't." she snapped, her voice brittle. She didn't turn around. "Don't do the Cooper Ellis thing. Don't tell me it's okay. Don't tell me they're just words. They aren't. "
" I know they aren't," I said, staying ten feet back. I knew how to handle injured athletes; you didn't crowd them. You waited for them to tell you where it hurt. " They were a violation. And you were incredible. You didn't give them an inch."
"I was a statue, Cooper. You were the one who saved it.
" She finally turned, and the look on her face was one of pure, unadulterled exhaustion.
There was no anger left, just a hollow, vacant tiredness that made me want to pull her into my arms and never let go.
"Why did you do that? You made yourself look like an idiot to save me from looking like a human being. "
" Because I'm better at being an idiot than you are," I said, trying for a smile that didn't quite reach my eyes. " And because I don't give a damn about my brand, Sloane. But I give a lot of damns about you."
The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the hum of the city and the sound of our own breathing. Sloane looked at me, really looked at me, and for the first time, I didn't see the 'No-Bull' host or the guarded mother. I saw a woman who was tired of fighting a war by herself.
"Tessa found the IP. " I said, the professional framework returning because it was the only safe thing left. "It came from inside the building. Someone at NovaWave is feeding the trolls, Sloane. They're using your past to manufacture the 'friction' they want."
Sloane nodded slowly, her jaw tightening. " Rhea. Or Graham. Or Derek. It doesn't matter which one held the knife, Cooper. The whole building is the crime scene."
She stepped away from the railing, her movements stiff, controlled.
She walked toward me, stopping just inches away.
I could feel the heat radiating from her, the scent of her jasmine perfume mixed with the metallic tang of the city air.
She reached out, her hand hovering near my chest before she pulled it back, as if she'd remembered the rules we were supposed to be following.
"I can't do this anymore," she whispered. "I can't play their game. "
" Then we change the game," I said, my voice dropping into a low, steady register.
I reached out then, covering her hand with mine, pinning it to my chest so she could feel the steady, thudding rhythm of my heart.
" We find out exactly what's in that contingency folder.
We find the mole. And then we burn the whole thing down. "
Sloane looked up at me, and in the depths of her dark eyes, I saw it—the flicker of something that wasn't just trust. It was a partnership. Not the kind mandated by a contract addendum, but the kind forged in the middle of a sabotage.
"They'll fire us, Cooper. They'll ruin us before we even get the chance. "
" Let them try." I said. I leaned in, my forehead resting against hers for a single, charged second. " I've always been better at the comeback than the lead anyway."
She didn't pull away. She leaned into me, a soft, broken sound escaping her throat that sounded like a surrender.
We stood there on the roof, two co-hosts who were no longer playing their parts, while the city hummed around us and the first seeds of a real rebellion began to take root in the cold afternoon air.
I didn't tell her about the dossier in my bag. I didn't tell her about the 'Red Flag File' I was still hiding. I just held her, the guilt of my own secrets a heavy, jagged bone in my throat, knowing that the higher we climbed together, the further we had to fall.
She didn't sleep well that night. And neither did I.