“Explain,” Trint says.
I laugh—short, sharp, humorless. “You think this was some kind of political stunt?”
“Was it?” he asks, too quickly.
My fists clench. “I walked into a restaurant during a storm. They were filming. I didn’t know. I got pulled into the kitchen because Dood Radman thought it’d be cute. That’s all.”
He watches me. I hate his eyes. They’re always calculating, like he’s running equations under his breath.
“I’m not here to judge your choices, Kristi,” he says carefully. “But your position here—your name—comes with visibility. Especially now.”
“What, because of my uncle?” I bite. “Because he bankrolls half this district’s political structure?”
“Because you’re on the Holonet, cooking with a Vakutan,” he says bluntly. “Laughing. Smiling. Getting cozy. And the comments, Kristi...”
He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to.
“I didn’t say anything. I didn’t endorse anything. I stirred a damn stew.”
“And in doing so,” Trint says, tapping the console, “you became a symbol.”
My blood runs cold.
He shifts forward, folds his hands like a man trying to seem kind. “We’re not suspending you. Not yet. But you need to be aware—optics matter. Your uncle called this morning.”
I freeze. “Hewhat?”
“He wants a meeting. With you. Privately.”
Of course he does.
Trint turns off the screen. “Go home for today. Take the time. Figure out what you want this to mean. Because right now, it’s not just about a cooking show.”
The walk home feels longer than usual. The tram smells like old metal and recycled sweat. Every time a compad buzzes near me, I flinch, convinced someone’s sharing the clip again. By the time I reach my building, I feel flayed open.
I don’t even make it to the shower before my compad buzzes.
The message from Dennis comes through before I even kick off my boots.
“Rooftop café. 20 minutes.”
Not a question. Not a request. No pleasantries. Just coordinates and a countdown. I don’t bother replying. He already knows I’ll show.
I swap my shirt for something less rumpled, pin my hair back, and step into the night like I’m headed to an execution.
Dennis always knows how to own a space. The man could turn a moldy back alley into a press conference just by sitting still. When I get to the rooftop café, he’s already there—legs crossed, cup of something steaming balanced elegantly in one hand. His coat hangs over the back of his chair like it’s part of the décor, and a projection hovers lazily in front of him.
Of course it’sthatimage. Me and Kenron. Caught mid-laugh. My face red from the kitchen heat, or the proximity, or both.Kenron’s gaze turned toward me, not the camera. Like I’m the only thing he sees.
“Lovely shot,” Dennis says as I approach, not looking up. “You’ve always photographed well.”
I sit across from him, spine like a damn iron rod, and say nothing.
He finally lifts his eyes to mine. Calm. Cold. Calculating.
“Good optics,” he murmurs, and takes a sip of his tea. “But dangerous ones.”
I don't blink. “It was nothing.”
