38. Lobby War
Lobby War
COOPER
The air in front of the NovaWave building tastes like static and expensive exhaust. It’s the kind of morning where the humidity clings to your skin like a bad reputation, heavy and impossible to shake.
I adjust my tie in the reflection of the tinted glass doors, feeling the weight of the silver thumb drive in my pocket like a live wire.
Beside me, Sloane is a vision of controlled, terrifying precision.
She isn’t wearing the soft sweater from last night.
She’s in a power suit the color of a bruised plum, her hair pulled back so tight it looks like it might snap if she thinks too hard.
She looks like a woman about to dismantle an empire, and honestly, it’s the most attractive thing I’ve ever seen.
I reach out, my knuckles brushing her wrist just for a second, a quiet pulse of I’ve got you in the middle of the storm.
"Ready to burn it down?" I ask, my voice low enough to stay between us.
Sloane doesn’t look at me, but she doesn't pull away either. Her chin lifts, a millimeter of defiance that says more than a three-page monologue ever could. "I didn't come here to burn it down, Cooper. I came to collect the insurance money on the ashes."
The lobby is already a circus. The moment the revolving doors spit us out into the marble-and-glass cavern of the NovaWave atrium, the flashes start.
It’s a rhythmic, blinding staccato—a dozen photographers who have been camping out since our pirate stream went viral.
I put my hand on the small of Sloane’s back, not to guide her, but to be the wall she can lean on if the ground starts to shift.
I can feel the tension radiating off her, a high-frequency vibration of a person who has spent her whole life being the hunter, now forced to play the trophy.
"Sloane! Over here!"
"Cooper, is it true you were coerced?"
"Did you leak the files yourselves for the ratings?"
The questions are sharp, jagged things thrown like stones.
Sloane doesn't flinch. She walks with a cadence that suggests she owns the floor tiles, her heels clicking a steady, rhythmic no-nonsense policy across the polished stone.
Our legal team, led by a man who looks like he hasn't smiled since the nineties, fans out around us.
We aren't just here for a conversation; we're here for an eviction.
Then the elevator chime rings, and Graham Voss steps out.
He looks like he’s been curated by a team of people who specialize in 'approachable authority.
' His suit is charcoal, his smile is practiced, and his eyes are as cold as a deep-sea trench.
Behind him, Rhea Saye is already tapping away at her phone, her face a mask of professional boredom that I know is actually a frantic calculation of damage control.
"Sloane, Cooper," Graham says, his voice projecting perfectly for the microphones being shoved in our faces. "This is a private place of business. You’re both currently under suspension—or in your case, Cooper, terminated for cause. I’m going to have to ask security to escort you out before this becomes a scene. "
"Oh, Graham," Sloane says, and the sweetness in her tone is the most dangerous thing in the room. "The scene happened last night. This is just the credits rolling."
She doesn't wait for him to respond. She signals to our lead counsel, who steps forward and hands a thick, heavy envelope to Graham. It’s not a polite letter.
It’s a formal filing for defamation, wrongful termination, and a laundry list of privacy violations that would make a mob boss sweat.
I step forward, closing the gap between us and Graham until I’m towering over him just enough to be an inconvenience.
"That’s the legal paperwork," I say, making sure my voice carries to the front row of the press corps. "But since we're all about transparency here at NovaWave, I thought the public might like the metadata. The server logs. The IP addresses that show exactly who authorized the AI-stitched audio."
Graham’s smile doesn't slip, but the muscle in his jaw hitches. It’s a small, beautiful crack in the armor. "You're playing a dangerous game, kid. This isn't a podcast. This is the real world."
"Funny," I reply, leaning in close enough that only he can hear the edge in my voice. "In the real world, people go to jail for wire fraud and threatening six-year-olds. We have Derek’s confession on tape, Graham. We have yours by association."
Rhea steps forward then, her heels clicking a sharp warning. "Perception is reality, Cooper. And right now, the perception is that two disgruntled employees are throwing a tantrum because they couldn't handle the big leagues."
Sloane turns to the cameras, her eyes bright and fierce.
She doesn't look like a victim. She looks like a reckoning. "Rhea is right about one thing. Perception is reality. So let’s change yours. If NovaWave has nothing to hide, why did they try to buy Cooper’s silence with a solo show?
Why did they create a 'Donovan—Contingency' folder months ago? "
The press erupts. The tide is turning, the predatory energy of the room shifting from us to the two executives standing under the neon NovaWave logo.
I watch Graham’s face go pale as the reporters start shouting questions about the server logs and the 'Contingency' files. He’s losing the room. He’s losing the narrative.
And for a man who lives on optics, that’s worse than death.
In the middle of the chaos, I find Sloane's hand.
I don't care about the cameras. I don't care about the branding or the 'Hot Mic' persona we’re supposed to be selling.
I lace my fingers through hers, squeezing tight.
Her hand is cold, but she squeezes back, a firm, grounding pressure that tells me she isn't going anywhere.
This isn't for the show. This is for the person who stayed up with me until three in the morning looking at spreadsheets, the person who trusts me with the most precious parts of her life.
"We’re done here," Sloane says, her voice ringing out over the noise. "NovaWave can keep the building. We’re taking the truth."
As we turn to leave, Graham makes one last desperate grab. "You'll never work in this city again, Sloane! You're a liability! No one will touch you!"
Sloane stops, looking back over her shoulder with a look of genuine pity. "I don't need anyone to touch me, Graham. I have my own mic now. And I think the world is finally ready to hear what happens when people like you stop talking."
We walk out of the lobby and into the bright, unforgiving sunlight of the street.
The cameras follow us to the curb, but the weight that has been crushing my chest for weeks is finally gone.
I feel light. I feel like the guy from the hiking catalog again, only this time, I’m not looking for a mountain to climb—I’ve already reached the summit.
We reach the car, and Sloane leans against the door, her breath coming in shallow, quick bursts.
The adrenaline is fading, leaving behind the raw, jagged reality of what we just did.
She looks at me, and for the first time today, the 'No-Bull' armor is completely gone.
There is a particular kind of silence that only happens after a war—the kind that isn't empty, but full of the things that survived.
"You did it," I whisper, stepping into her space. "You took them down."
"We did it," she corrects, her voice shaking just a little. She reaches up, her palm resting against my cheek, her thumb tracing the line of my jaw with a tenderness that makes my throat tighten. "You stayed, Cooper. Even when you had every reason to walk away with a better deal, you stayed."
"I'm a sunshine guy, remember?" I say, trying to find a smile even as my heart does a slow, heavy roll in my chest. "I don't leave when it gets cloudy. I just wait for the sun to come back out."
Sloane pulls me down, her mouth meeting mine in a kiss that tastes like relief and victory and a thousand things we haven't said yet. It’s a bookmark moment, the kind of kiss that anchors a person to a place and a time, making everything that came before feel like a prologue.
The city is loud around us, the reporters are still shouting, and the world is probably ending in a dozen different ways on Twitter, but right here, in the shadow of the empire we just toppled, everything is finally, perfectly quiet.
She pulls back just an inch, her forehead resting against mine. "Milo is going to be so happy you're home for dinner."
"I'm home," I say, and for the first time in my life, I know exactly what that means. "I'm not going anywhere."