25. Knives in the Studio
Knives in the Studio
SLOANE
The air in Studio B always smells like ozone and expensive acoustic foam, a scent that usually anchors me, but today it feels like a vacuum.
My lungs aren't quite expanding the way they should. Cooper is standing too close, his breath hitching in the small space, and he’s holding a black flash drive like it’s a live grenade.
He doesn't look like the golden boy of NovaWave right now; he looks like he’s just seen a ghost, his usual effortless posture collapsed into something jagged and sharp.
"Sloane," he says, and my name sounds like a bruise in his mouth. "I found it. I found the leverage."
I don't want to look. Every instinct I’ve spent a decade honing is screaming at me to turn around, walk out the heavy soundproof door, and pretend I’m still just a woman with a difficult co-host. But I reach out.
My fingers brush his—a spark of heat that I have no business feeling—and I take the drive.
It’s cold. It’s heavy. It’s the physical weight of every suspicion I’ve tried to drown in cold brew and professional cynicism.
We lean over my laptop, the screen casting a pale, clinical blue glow over his face.
He double-clicks a folder labeled DONOVAN—CONTINGENCY.
My breath hitches. It’s not just a file; it’s a morgue.
There are dozens of WAV files, their timestamps stretching back months, long before Cooper ever stepped into my studio. I click the first one.
It’s my voice. But it’s not me. It’s a Frankenstein’s monster of syllables.
I can hear the digital artifacts, the tiny, jagged pops where they’ve stitched my breath into a lie.
In the recording, I sound cold, calculated, admitting to hating my listeners, calling them 'paychecks with ears.
' I never said that. I said I was tired of the industry treating people like paychecks.
But in the file, the nuance is gone, replaced by a lie designed to end me.
"They were going to use this if you didn't play along with the romance angle," Cooper whispers, his jaw so tight I can see the muscle leap. "And they have one for me, too. A dossier. They were going to frame me as the leaker, the guy who betrayed your trust to get your time slot."
The betrayal isn't a sharp pain; it’s professional vertigo.
The studio floor feels like a trapdoor that’s been creaking for years, and I’ve finally fallen through.
Graham. Rhea. The people who sign my checks have been planning my professional execution while smiling at me over glass-walled conference tables.
I think of the lodge, the storm, the way I let myself believe—for one terrifying, beautiful night—that I was safe with him.
And all the while, the knives were already unsheathed.
"They didn't just want a show, Sloane," Cooper says, stepping into my space, his hand hovering near my waist but not quite touching. "They wanted a carcass. They wanted to strip us both down and sell the pieces."
I look up at him, and for the first time, I don't see the intruder. I see the only other person in this building who isn't holding a blade. My voice is a ghost of itself when I speak. "We have to go in there. We have to record the next episode like we don't know."
"I know," he says, and the 'Sunshine' is gone, replaced by a grim, protective steel. "But we aren't going in alone."
The door swings open, and Tessa slides in, her usual chaotic energy replaced by a frantic, focused hum.
She looks at the screen, then at us, her eyes darting between my pale face and Cooper’s rigid stance.
She doesn't ask what’s wrong; she’s a producer.
She smells the blood in the water before the sharks even arrive.
"Inez is looping the feed in the control room," Tessa says, her voice low and urgent. "She can give us ten minutes of 'technical difficulties' where the internal mikes are hot but the stream is dead. If you’re going to do something, do it now."
I look at the flash drive, then at the man standing beside me.
Cooper reaches out, his thumb grazing the back of my hand, a silent question.
I realize then that I’ve spent my whole life waiting for the other shoe to drop, and now that it has, I’m not falling.
I’m standing. And I’m not standing alone.
"Tessa," I say, my voice regaining its edge, that razor-sharp precision that built this brand. "Record everything. Every word Graham says in that control room. If they want a show, we’re going to give them a finale they’ll never forget."
Cooper’s grip on my hand tightens, and for a second, the world is just the two of us and the hum of the equipment. "Whatever happens next," he murmurs, "I’m with you. Not as a co-host. As yours."
I swallow hard, the admission hitting me harder than the betrayal. "I know," I say. "Now let’s go play the part."
We walk into the main studio, the lights blindingly bright, the red ON AIR sign glowing like a warning light on a sinking ship. Behind the glass, Graham is smiling, adjusting his cuffs, looking every bit the victor. He thinks he owns the narrative. He thinks he owns me.
"Ready for a big one, guys?" Graham’s voice crackles through our headsets, oily and smooth. "The numbers are trending toward the moon. Just give them that heat. Give them the chemistry."
I settle into my chair, the familiar weight of the Shure SM7B in front of me. I look at Cooper across the table. He adjusts his levels, his eyes never leaving mine. He looks like a man who knows he’s about to lose everything and couldn't care less as long as I’m the one he’s losing it with.
"We're ready, Graham," I say, my finger hovering over the mute button. "We're going to give them exactly what they deserve."
The recording starts, and we launch into the banter—the practiced, flirtatious friction that the audience craves.
Every laugh feels like a lie, every smile a paper-thin mask.
I can feel the heat of him from across the table, a physical pull that makes it hard to remember the script Rhea wrote for us.
We talk about 'authenticity' and 'trust,' the words tasting like ash in my mouth.
Midway through the segment, Cooper leans forward.
It’s not in the notes. He reaches across the table and brushes a stray hair from my face, his fingers lingering on my temple.
It’s a swoon moment, a perfect piece of theater for the cameras, but the look in his eyes is devastatingly real.
It’s an admission, a quiet declaration of love made in the middle of a war zone.
"You're doing great, Sloane," he says, his voice dropping into that low, intimate register that isn't for the listeners. "You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met."
My throat tightens. I want to tell him I love him. I want to tell him I’m terrified. I want to tell him that if we burn down this building, I hope we’re holding hands when we do it. But I just nod, my professional armor cracking just enough for him to see the truth underneath.
The segment ends, and Graham’s voice fills our ears again. "Beautiful. Absolute gold. Sloane, I need you in my office for an emergency review. Cooper, stay here and prep the outtakes with Inez."
This is it. The ambush. I stand up, my legs feeling like lead, and Cooper stands with me. He doesn't move toward the door; he moves toward me. He cups my face in his hands, ignoring the glass, ignoring the executives watching us like specimens in a jar.
He kisses me. It’s not the scripted kiss Rhea wanted. It’s desperate, hard, and tastes like a goodbye and a beginning all at once. His tongue slides against mine, a frantic, wet claim that leaves me breathless and dizzy. He pulls back just an inch, his forehead resting against mine.
"I love you," he whispers, the words lost to the microphones but loud enough to shatter my last defense. "Go in there and hold the line. I’m right behind you."
I don't say it back. I can't. Not yet. But I squeeze his wrist, my fingers digging into his skin, and I walk toward the door. I’m a woman who built a career on calling out manipulation, and today, I’m going to do it for the last time at NovaWave.
I walk down the hallway, the clicking of my heels sounding like a countdown. I’m not a victim. I’m not a contingency plan. I’m Sloane Donovan, and I’m about to show Graham Voss exactly what happens when you try to edit the truth.
I reach the door to Graham’s office and don't knock. I push it open. He’s sitting there, the 'Contingency' folder likely open on his screen, a predatory smile on his face. He thinks he’s about to break me. He has no idea I’ve already found the pieces.
"Sit down, Sloane," Graham says, gesturing to the chair. "We have a lot to discuss about your future."
I sit. I don't look at the screen. I look at him. And in the silence of the room, I can hear the faint, steady hum of the secret recorder in my pocket, catching every single word.