32. Hot Mic Betrayal
Hot Mic Betrayal
COOPER
"You’re doing it again," she says, her voice a low vibration that barely carries past the pop filter. She doesn't look at me, but I can feel her focus shifting, that razor-sharp Sloane Donovan perception narrowing onto the way I’m tapping my pen against the console.
"Doing what?" I ask, forcing my hand to go still. I try for the sunshine voice—the one that usually makes her roll her eyes and call me a human golden retriever—but it comes out thin, like a radio signal fading as you drive into a tunnel.
"Assessing the exits," she says, finally turning her head.
Her eyes are dark, rimmed with the kind of fatigue that doesn't wash off in a shower.
We spent the night together, locked in a bubble of tangled sheets and whispered promises that felt like a sanctuary, but the sun came up anyway.
It always does. "You have that look you get when you’re trying to figure out which of us is going to take the first hit. "
"I’m not assessing exits," I lie, though my heart is currently doing a frantic percussion solo against my ribs. "I’m just thinking about the coffee. It’s terrible today. Inez must be using the beans Graham buys for the interns."
Sloane reaches out, her hand hovering over mine for a second before she lets it land.
It’s a small contact—just the brush of her palm against my wrist—but it grounds me.
It’s the kind of touch that says everything we can’t say because the mics are live-wired and the glass between us and the control room is a two-way mirror into a shark tank.
"Cooper," she whispers. "Whatever happens in the next ten minutes, don't play the hero. You have a career to think about. I’m already the villain in their script. "
"I’m not playing, Sloane," I say, and for the first time all morning, my voice is steady. I turn my hand over, lacing my fingers through hers, hiding the gesture beneath the edge of the desk. "I’m the co-host. We’re a package deal. That’s what the marketing says, right?"
She starts to reply, her mouth softening in a way that makes me want to pull her across the console and forget that Rhea Saye is currently standing behind the glass, looking like a high-fashion executioner.
But the red LIGHT ON air sign flickers once, twice, and then burns a solid, unforgiving crimson. The countdown is over.
"Welcome back to a special, live pop-up segment of The Donovan-Ellis Exchange," Rhea’s voice pipes into our headsets, smooth as silk and twice as deadly.
She isn't in the booth; she’s patched in from the executive floor, her tone dripping with the kind of manufactured excitement that precedes a public hanging.
"We have some exclusive, never-before-heard audio that sheds a new light on our hosts' journey.
A little gift for the listeners who've been with us since the beginning. "
Sloane’s grip on my hand tightens until it’s almost painful.
She knows. I can see the realization hit her—the way her spine goes rigid, the way her breath catches in her throat.
She’s spent years building a fortress around her reputation, a 'No-Bull' brand that promised her audience the truth, and she knows exactly how Rhea is about to turn that truth into a weapon.
The audio starts. It isn't the crisp, studio-quality sound we’re used to.
It’s grainy, filled with the ambient hiss of a room that wasn't meant to be recorded. It’s Sloane’s voice, but it’s distorted, the pacing off, the cadences clipped together by an AI that doesn't understand the soul of a sentence.
"...don't actually care about the listeners," the voice says, a jagged version of Sloane’s low alto. "They’re just numbers in a spreadsheet. I tell them what they want to hear so they keep clicking, but honestly? It’s a chore. They’re gullible. They want a savior, and I’m just a business woman."
The silence in the studio is absolute, a vacuum that sucks the air right out of my lungs.
In the control room, Inez is frozen, her hands hovering over the faders like she’s just watched a car crash.
Behind her, Graham Voss is leaning against the wall, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face.
He’s watching Sloane, waiting for the crack, waiting for the moment her pride collapses under the weight of a lie designed to sound exactly like her darkest fears.
The audio continues, an edited nightmare of Sloane’s private frustrations from years ago, twisted into a manifesto of contempt. "Cooper? He’s the perfect distraction. A pretty face to keep the flies happy while I secure the exit strategy. I’m not here to build a partnership. I’m here to win."
Sloane isn't breathing. She’s staring at the monitor, her eyes fixed on the live-stream comments that are already scrolling past in a blur of hate and betrayal.
The 'No-Bull' queen is being dethroned by a ghost in the machine. She looks smaller than I’ve ever seen her, a literal shadow of the woman who fought so hard to keep her son’s world safe.
It’s not just her career they’re killing; it’s the person she worked ten years to become.
I don't think. I don't calculate the cost to my contract or the 'Golden Retriever' branding that Rhea worked so hard to polish.
I don't think. I don't calculate the cost to my metrics or my 'Sunshine' brand.
I reach across the console and slam my palm down on the Master Kill switch.
The audio dies with a sharp, electronic pop that rings in the silence.
The red LIGHT ON sign flickers and dies, plunging us into a darkness that tastes like ozone and cold sweat.
"That’s enough," I say, the words ringing out in the dead studio. I’m not talking to the audience anymore. I’m looking through the glass, straight at Graham. "That’s a manipulated file. It’s AI-stitched, and every person in this building knows it."
The heavy soundproof door swings open. It doesn't yield; it hits the wall with a bang that echoes like a gunshot. Graham Voss strides in, followed by a phalanx of security guards and a silent, watching Rhea. He looks exhilarated, the way a man looks when he finally gets to use the power he’s been hoarding.
"Cooper, step away from the mic," Graham says, his voice vibrating with a dark, oily satisfaction.
He doesn't even look at Sloane. She’s already a casualty to him.
"You just interfered with a live broadcast. You just violated three separate clauses of your morality agreement and your operational mandate. "
"It was a hit piece, Graham," I say, standing up. I’m taller than him, a fact I’ve never used as a weapon until now.
I step in front of Sloane, shielding her from the predatory gleam in his eyes.
"You played a fabricated recording to destroy a woman’s life for a five-point bump in the morning metrics. It’s pathetic. Even for you."
Graham’s smile doesn't falter. He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. He holds it out, not to me, but to the room at large, making sure Inez and the trembling interns can see it. It’s an official notice. The ink looks like blood on the white page.
"Cooper Ellis," Graham says, his voice ringing with a terrifying clarity.
"You are terminated, effective immediately. Security will escort you from the premises. Your access to the NovaWave servers is revoked. Your likeness and brand remain the property of this network until the litigation is settled. You’re done. "
He turns his gaze to Sloane, who is finally standing, her face a mask of cold, terrifying calm. "And you, Sloane. You’re suspended pending a full board review of the 'hostile environment' allegations we've received. It seems your co-host isn't the only one who finds your behavior... problematic."
I look back at Sloane. She’s not looking at Graham.
She’s looking at me, and there’s a devastating clarity in her eyes.
It’s the look of someone who just realized the floor they were standing on was made of ice, and I’m the one who just jumped in after her.
I’ve lost everything—the show, the career, the reputation I came here to build—and for a second, the weight of it feels like a physical blow to the chest.
But then I remember the way she looked this morning, asleep in the light of my window, safe.
I remember Milo’s laugh when we finally found that LEGO Batman’s head.
This isn't a career. It’s a cage. And as the security guards step forward to take my arm, I realize that the only thing Graham can actually take from me is a paycheck.
"Don't worry, Graham," I say, letting them lead me toward the door. I look over my shoulder, catching Sloane’s gaze one last time. "The truth isn't a comfort food. It’s a bone. And you’re about to find out how hard it is to swallow."
I walk out of the studio, the heavy door clicking shut behind me, leaving the only woman I’ve ever loved alone in a room full of wolves.
The hallway is long, the fluorescent lights flickering with a clinical, unfeeling rhythm.
I don't have my coat. I don't have my phone. I just have the knowledge that I’ve finally chosen a side, and in this building, that’s a death sentence.