27. The Superhero Crisis
The Superhero Crisis
SLOANE
Graham’s office smells like expensive leather and the kind of high-end floor wax that implies nothing messy ever happens here.
The silence following Cooper’s defiance is thick, a physical weight pressing against the soundproof glass.
I can feel the heat radiating off Cooper’s shoulder, a steady, grounded presence that makes my own hands stop their traitorous trembling.
“You’re making a mistake, Cooper,” Graham says, his voice as smooth as a polished stone.
He doesn't look like a man who just had his blackmail exposed; he looks like a bored king dealing with a minor peasant revolt.
“Integrity is a wonderful hobby for people who don't have mortgages. Or reputations to protect.”
“My reputation is fine,” Cooper says, his tone deceptively mild, the sunshine in his voice replaced by something harder, like tempered steel. “I’m more worried about the smell in here. It’s getting a little desperate.”
I open my mouth to add a final, surgical strike to Graham’s ego, but the sharp, insistent vibration of my phone cut through the tension.
I don't check my phone during meetings. I certainly don't check it during career-defining standoffs. But the vibration is different—three short bursts, then a long one. The emergency signal from Milo’s school.
The air in the room suddenly feels too thin. I pull the device from my pocket, my thumb fumbling against the glass. It’s a call from the front office. My heart doesn't hammer; it simply stops, then restarts in a frantic, jagged rhythm that makes my vision blur at the edges.
“I have to go,” I say, my voice sounding like it belongs to someone else, someone much smaller and more terrified than Sloane Donovan is allowed to be.
“We aren't finished here, Sloane,” Rhea says, her eyes narrowing as she adjusts a perfectly placed cufflink. “If you walk out now, the restructuring happens without your input. You’ll be lucky if we let you keep your login credentials.”
“My son is hurt,” I snap, the guarded professional mask shattering completely. I don't wait for their permission. I don't even look at Cooper. I just turn and run, my heels clicking a frantic, uneven beat against the designer linoleum that suddenly feels like miles of desert I have to cross.
The hallway is a blur of neutral tones and faces I’ve worked beside for years, now reduced to unrecognizable smears of color.
I hit the elevator bank, stabbing the button with a force that should have cracked the plastic.
The doors slide open, and I find Cooper right there, his breathing heavy, his face set in a mask of focused intensity that matches my own.
“I’m driving,” he says. It’s not an offer. It’s a fact.
“Cooper, the meeting—”
“Fuck the meeting,” he says, grabbing my hand. His palm is warm, a solid anchor in the middle of the storm currently dismantling my life. “Milo is what matters. Let’s go.”
We burst into the lobby, the glass doors swinging wide as if sensing the urgency.
But the exit isn't clear. Standing by the security desk, leaning against a marble pillar with a smartphone held at a very specific, deliberate angle, is Derek Halloway.
He isn't looking at us; he’s looking at his screen, his thumb tapping the record button as we approach.
“Sloane!” Derek calls out, his voice pitched for the microphone he surely has tucked into his collar. “Care to comment on the rumors of a hostile environment? You look a little... frantic. Is the ‘No-Bull’ brand finally caving under the pressure of the audit?”
I don't stop. I can't. Every second Derek wastes is a second Milo is waiting for me, hurt and scared in a nurse's office. “Get out of my way, Derek,” I hiss, trying to sidestep him, but he shifts with me, keeping the lens trained directly on my face, capturing the raw panic I can't hide.
“Is this a breakdown, Sloane? Digital fly-on-the-wall content is the new frontier. Give the fans what they want. Tell them how it feels to lose control of your own narrative.”
The anger that hits me isn't a wave; it’s a flash fire. It’s the ‘mama bear’ instinct I’ve spent six years trying to keep under a professional veneer, now roaring to the surface because this pathetic, opportunistic vulture is using my child’s emergency as a backdrop for his audition to replace me.
Before I can swing my bag at his smug face, Cooper moves.
It’s a blur of charcoal henley and broad shoulders.
He doesn't hit Derek—that would be too easy, too messy. He simply steps into the space between us, his massive frame completely eclipsing the camera lens. He places a hand directly over the phone’s sensor, his movements calm and terrifyingly deliberate.
“The camera is off, Derek,” Cooper says. His voice has dropped an octave, a low, tectonic vibration that makes my own pulse stutter. He’s not the sunshine boy anymore; he’s a landslide. It’s the sound of a man who knows exactly how much damage he could do and is choosing, for now, to be merciful.
“Hey! That’s corporate property,” Derek squeaks, trying to pull the phone back, but Cooper doesn't budge. He’s a mountain of a man, and right now, he’s my personal fortress.
“I don't care if it belongs to the Pope,” Cooper says, leaning in until he’s inches from Derek’s nose.
“If you point that thing at her again, or if you even think about mentioning her son, I will make sure the only thing you’re recording for the next year is the sound of your own career hitting the pavement. Do you understand me?”
Derek pales, his petty vindictiveness wilting under the heat of Cooper’s stare.
He stammers something incoherent and scurries toward the elevators, looking like a whipped dog.
Cooper doesn't watch him go. He turns back to me, his expression instantly softening, his hands reaching out to steady me by the elbows.
“Go,” he whispers. “The car is right out front. I’m right behind you.”
We reach the curb, the city air hitting my face like a cold slap.
Cooper’s SUV is idling, having been brought around by the valet who clearly knows better than to delay a man who looks like Cooper does right now.
I slide into the passenger seat, my knees hitting the dashboard, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
The drive to Milo’s school is a frantic exercise in navigating gridlock.
Cooper drives with a focused, surgical precision, weaving through lanes while keeping one hand on the gear shift and the other occasionally reaching over to squeeze my hand.
He doesn't try to fill the silence with platitudes. He knows that ‘it’ll be okay’ is a lie I’m not ready to hear.
“He was playing superheroes,” I mutter, staring out the window at the blurred brick buildings. “He always plays superheroes on Tuesdays because it’s pizza night. He thinks it makes him faster.”
“He’s tough, Sloane,” Cooper says, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror before he guns it through a yellow light. “He’s got his mother’s constitution. A playground tumble isn't going to take him down.”
“You don't understand,” I say, the realization hitting me with the force of a physical blow. “They were waiting for me. Derek was waiting. Rhea and Graham... they knew. They knew I’d get that call. They’re targeting my kid’s peace, Cooper. They’re using him as leverage.”
The thought makes me feel sick, a cold, oily dread sliding down my throat.
My professional identity, the ‘No-Bull’ brand I spent years building, was supposed to be a shield.
It was supposed to keep the world away from the quiet, messy, beautiful life I have with Milo.
Instead, it’s become a target painted on his back.
“They won't get to him,” Cooper says, his grip on the steering wheel tightening until his knuckles are white. “Not while I’m breathing. We’re going to get him, and then we’re going to burn that building to the ground. Metaphorically. Mostly.”
We screech to a halt in the school’s circular driveway.
I’m out of the car before it’s fully stopped, running toward the heavy oak doors of the main entrance.
The smell of the school—tater tots, floor wax, and pencil shavings—is usually a comfort, a reminder of the mundane safety of Milo’s world. Today, it feels like an accusation.
I burst into the nurse’s office. The air smells like tater tots and industrial lavender.
Milo is perched on the edge of the exam table, his small legs dangling, a bag of frozen peas leaking condensation onto his eyebrow.
There’s a scrape on his chin and his eyes are red-rimmed, but when he sees me, his entire face brightens with a wobbly, heroic smile.
“Mommy! I did a spectacular landing,” he says, his voice cracking slightly. “But the gravity was too strong today. It was like a black hole.”
“Oh, Milo,” I breathe, reaching him in two strides and pulling his small, sturdy body against mine. He smells like sweat and playground dirt and the soap the school uses, and the relief that washes over me is so violent I think I might actually faint. He’s okay. He’s breathing. He’s whole.
“Is Cooper here?” Milo asks against my shoulder, his voice muffled. “I need to tell him about the black hole. He knows about space stuff.”
I look up and see Cooper standing in the doorway.
He looks entirely out of place in this room of primary colors and height charts—too big, too handsome, too much like a man who belongs in a high-end hiking catalog.
But the look on his face as he watches Milo is so tender, so genuinely pained by the sight of the frozen peas, that it makes my heart ache in a way that has nothing to do with fear.
“I’m here, buddy,” Cooper says, crossing the room. He doesn't hover. He crouches down so he’s at Milo’s eye level, his hands resting on his own knees. “A black hole, huh? Those are tricky. Even for the Avengers.”
“I think it was a trap set by the villains,” Milo says, leaning toward Cooper with the absolute trust of a child who has found his favorite person. “They put a cloaking device on the edge of the slide.”
“Villains are like that,” Cooper agrees, his eyes flicking to mine for a brief, burning second. The subtext is a roar—he isn't just talking about the playground. He’s talking about the building we just fled, the people who are currently trying to turn our lives into a content stream.
The school nurse, a woman with kind eyes and a sensible cardigan, approaches me with a clipboard. “He’s fine, Ms. Donovan. A minor bump and some bruised pride. He was very brave. He told everyone his ‘co-host’ would know how to fix it.”
I sign the forms, my hand finally steady.
The professional battle at NovaWave feels a thousand miles away, a petty squabble over numbers and egos that doesn't deserve a single second of my attention.
My world is right here, in this small office, centered around a boy with a bag of peas and the man who didn't hesitate to follow me into the wreckage.
“Can we go home now?” Milo asks, reaching for Cooper’s hand. “Cooper can carry me. My legs are out of fuel.”
“I think I can manage that,” Cooper says, easily hoisting Milo into his arms. Milo tucks his head into the crook of Cooper’s neck, his eyes already beginning to flutter shut from the adrenaline crash.
As we walk back to the car, the late afternoon sun casting long, golden shadows across the asphalt, I realize the ‘Contingency Folder’ and the AI audio files don't scare me anymore. They can take the show. They can take the brand. They can take every dollar I’ve earned since I was twenty-two.
But they can’t have this. They can’t have the way Milo’s hand looks against Cooper’s shoulder, or the way Cooper looks back at me to make sure I’m still there, his eyes promising a kind of safety I’ve never known how to ask for.
The battle isn't over, but for the first time in years, I know exactly what I’m fighting for. And I know I’m not fighting alone.
We settle into the car, the silence finally peaceful. I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes, the scent of Cooper’s pine-scented soap and Milo’s playground dust filling the small space. It’s the smell of a life that isn't for sale. It’s the smell of the truth.
“Sloane?” Cooper says softly, his hand finding mine on the center console. His thumb brushes over my knuckles, a slow, rhythmic movement that feels like a vow.
“Yeah?” I whisper, not opening my eyes.
“We’re going to win,” he says. And for the first time in my life, I don't feel the need to fact-check the sentiment.