33. Walk of Shame #2
"Inez is working on it," Cooper says. "She’s looping the security feed from the server room. If she can get the physical access logs, we have them."
He looks at me then, his eyes dark and resolute. "Sloane, if we do this, there’s no going back. NovaWave will come at us with everything they have. They’ll try to bury the independent show before it even starts."
"Let them try," I say, and for the first time today, I actually mean it. "I built that show in a basement with a broken mic and a laptop I bought on credit. I can build it again."
Tessa grins, a sharp, delighted expression. "That’s my girl. I’ve already registered the domain for the independent feed. We’re calling it 'The Hot Mic.' It’s a little on the nose, but the SEO is going to be incredible."
I look at the screen, at the jagged lines of the audio wave that represent my life being torn apart, and then I look at the people in the room.
Tessa, who has never blinked in the face of my moods.
Inez, who is currently risking her career to send us data from inside the belly of the beast. And Cooper.
Cooper, who is currently tracing the pattern on the back of my hand with his thumb, a small, rhythmic motion that feels like a heartbeat.
He’s the man I didn't want, the partner I tried to sabotage, and the only reason I’m currently sitting at this table instead of curled in a ball on my apartment floor.
There's a particular kind of clarity that comes with losing everything—the realization that the things you were protecting weren't actually yours to keep.
My show wasn't the building or the badge or the expensive acoustic foam.
It was the truth. And the truth is currently sitting in a messy kitchen in a suburb, drinking lukewarm coffee and planning a revolution.
"We record tonight," I say, my voice steady. "We release it at nine a.m. tomorrow. Exactly twenty-four hours after they tried to kill us."
"I'll set up the gear," Tessa says, already moving toward the garage. "I've got the old Shures in the trunk of my car."
She leaves the room, and for a moment, it’s just me and Cooper in the quiet of the kitchen. The hum of the refrigerator is the only sound, a domestic white noise that feels like a sanctuary. He hasn't let go of my hand.
"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice dropping into that low, intimate register that always makes my skin prickle. "Really?"
"No," I say, because I’m done lying. "I’m angry. I’m humiliated. I’m terrified that I’ve ruined Milo’s life by picking a fight with people who have more money than God."
"You didn't ruin his life," Cooper says, leaning in until our foreheads touch. "You’re showing him what it looks like to stand up for yourself. That’s a gift, Sloane. Even if it’s a messy one."
He kisses me then, a slow, grounding pressure that tastes like resolve and salt. It’s not the frantic, desperate kiss of the cabin or the studio. It’s a promise. It’s the sound of the anchor dropping into the harbor after a storm that should have sunk us both.
I pull back, my breath hitching in my chest. "We’re going to be broke, Cooper. We’re going to be the most hated people in the industry for at least a week."
"I've been broke before," he says, a small, crooked smile playing on his lips. "And I’ve been hated by better people than Graham Voss. As long as I’m in the booth with you, I don't really care about the rest of it."
I look at him—really look at him—and I see the man who survived the athlete-to-outcast transition, the man who handled my barbs with grace and my son with tenderness.
I see the partner I didn't know I was looking for, and for the first time since Ray took my badge, the weight in my stomach doesn't feel like lead. It feels like fuel.
"Okay," I say, standing up and reaching for the stack of notes Tessa left behind. "Let's get to work."
We spent the next six hours in the garage, hunched over a makeshift desk made of sawhorses and a sheet of plywood.
The air is chilly and smells like old motor oil and sawdust, a far cry from the sixty-eight-degree precision of NovaWave.
But as I speak into the mic, as I lay out the evidence of the manipulation and the betrayal, my voice sounds clearer than it ever did in the glass tower.
Cooper is across from me, his eyes fixed on mine as he adds his own testimony, his voice steady and calm as he explains the 'Contingency' folder and the bribes he refused. We aren't just co-hosts anymore. We’re witnesses.
By the time we finish, the sun has set and the garage is lit by a single, bare bulb overhead. Tessa is at the monitor, her eyes bloodshot but her grin wider than ever.
"It's perfect," she whispers, hitting the save button. "It’s the most honest thing you’ve ever recorded, Sloane. It’s going to break the internet."
"Good," I say, leaning back in my chair. My throat is raw, my head is pounding, and I’m pretty sure I’ve forgotten how to sleep. But as Cooper reaches over and shuts off the mic, the silence that follows isn't heavy. It’s light. It’s the sound of a room that finally has enough air in it.
He doesn't say anything as he helps me pack up the gear. He just stays close, his hand a constant presence on the small of my back or my shoulder, a silent reminder that I’m not doing this alone. We walk back into the house, our shadows long against the pavement.
I don't go home that night. I can't face the empty apartment and the Friday waterings and the silence that will feel like an accusation. I stay on Tessa’s couch, tucked under a quilt that smells like laundry detergent and her cat, while Cooper sleeps in the guest room ten feet away.
I don't sleep well. Every time I close my eyes, I see the look on Ray’s face or the glint of the camera lens in the lobby. But then I think of the audio file sitting on Tessa’s hard drive, the digital bomb we’re about to drop on the people who thought they could own the truth.
At three in the morning, the door to the guest room creaks open. I don't have to look to know who it is. I can feel the shift in the air, the way the silence suddenly feels less like a void and more like a conversation.
"You’re awake," Cooper whispers, his voice a ghost in the dark.
"I’m thinking about my succulent," I say, the absurdity of it finally making me laugh, a small, jagged sound in the shadows. "It’s a Haworthia. It’s supposed to be indestructible, but I’m pretty sure Graham is the kind of guy who would overwater a plant just to watch it rot."
Cooper sits on the edge of the couch, his weight pulling the cushions toward him. He reaches out, his hand finding mine under the quilt. "I'll buy you a new one, Sloane. I'll buy you a whole greenhouse. Just as soon as we clear your name."
"I don't want a greenhouse," I say, my voice catching. "I just want to be able to look Milo in the eye tomorrow."
"You will," he says, and he sounds so certain that I almost believe him. "You will."
He stays there until the first grey light of dawn begins to bleed through the curtains.
He doesn't try to make it better with jokes or platitudes. He just stays. And in the quiet of the pre-dawn hours, I realize that this is what I’ve been missing.
Not the control or the brand or the investigative trophies.
This. Someone who stays when the building is burning.
At eight fifty-nine, we gather around Tessa’s laptop. Inez is on speakerphone, her voice a crackle of static and adrenaline. She’s officially resigned, she tells us. She left her badge on Graham’s desk and took her favorite headphones with her.
"Ready?" Tessa asks, her finger hovering over the upload button. Her eyes are bright with the kind of joy only a chaos gremlin can feel in the middle of a corporate war.
I look at Cooper. He looks at me. He takes my hand, his grip firm and steady, and gives me a single, slow nod.
"Upload it," I say.
The progress bar crawls across the screen, a tiny blue line that represents the end of one life and the beginning of another. When it hits a hundred percent, the room is silent for exactly three seconds before Tessa’s phone begins to vibrate on the table. Then Cooper’s. Then mine.
The notifications are a barrage, a digital thunderstorm that lights up the room. The truth is out. The bone has been swallowed. And as I watch the first wave of comments begin to pour in, I realize that Ray was wrong. I wasn't being walked out of a career. I was being walked out of a cage.
I don't look back. I put the phone away, lean my head on Cooper’s shoulder, and watch the sun rise over the suburbs.
We have a lot of work to do. We have lawyers to call and a son to protect and a network to build from the ashes.
But for now, for this one quiet moment, I’m not a brand or a host or a liability.
I’m just Sloane. And for the first time in a very long time, that’s enough.