"Thirty seconds."
I take a breath. I can do this.
"And we're live in five, four, three..."
The producer's countdown goes silent, replaced by hand signals. The red light on the camera blinks on.
Glass turns to face it with the smoothness of a man who has been doing this for decades. "Good evening. I'm David Glass, and this is Point of Contention. Tonight, we're discussing the story that's dominated headlines all week: the explosive exposé alleging three generations of corruption in one of America's most prominent political families. Joining me is the journalist who broke the story, Jamie Dean. Mr. Dean, welcome."
"Thank you for having me."
"Let's start with the basics. Walk us through what you found."
This part I know. I've rehearsed it a dozen times. I keep my voice steady, my language precise.
"Over an eight-month investigation, I documented a pattern of financial irregularities spanning the careers of three generations of the Crane family."
Glass nods, his expression attentive. "And can you support these claims?"
"Every allegation in the piece is backed by evidence."
"Strong words." Glass leans forward slightly. "Senator Crane has called your story a 'hit job' by a 'tabloid journalist with delusions of grandeur.' How do you respond?"
I've prepared for this too. "The Senator can call it whatever he wants. The documents speak for themselves. I'd encourage anyone who doubts the story to look at the evidence and draw their own conclusions."
"And your sources? The Senator's office has suggested they're disgruntled former employees with axes to grind."
"I'm not going to discuss my sources. What I will say is that I verified every piece of information through multiple channels. This isn't one disgruntled employee. This is a paper trail that spans decades."
Glass nods, making a note. We're five minutes in, and so far it's going exactly as planned. I start to relax slightly. Maybe this won't be so bad.
"Now," Glass says, and something shifts in his expression. I recognize it immediately. I've seen it a hundred times watching his show. The look that says he's about to do something unexpected. "I thought it might be interesting to get another perspective on this story. After all, journalism is about hearing all sides."
I draw in a deep breath. This is the moment. I know exactly what he’s going to say before he says it. The only thing I didn’t know was which of the Cranes I was going to get.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Carter Crane III."
The studio door opens.
And the world ends.
I don't see him at first. I smell him. It’s that winter stillness, snow and silence, slamming into me like a wall, flooding my lungs, my bloodstream, my brain.
It’s the same scent from the masquerade. The same scent I've been dreaming about for three weeks, waking up hard and aching and desperate.
It's here.He'shere. That scentwasfucking Carter Crane III. Some part of me must have already knew it, but now the evidence has me frozen in place.
My hands spasm on the arms of the chair. My vision blurs at the edges. Somewhere far away, I'm aware that I'm on live television and that millions of people are watching. I need to hold it together but the thought is distant, irrelevant, drowned out by the roar of my own blood in my ears.
Only then do I see him.
Carter Crane III walks through the studio door, and my body reacts before my brain can catch up.
Heat floods through me, pooling low in my belly. My skin prickles. My mouth goes dry.
Every instinct I have is screaming at me to stand up, to go to him, to press my face against his neck and breathe him in until I can't tell where his scent ends and mine begins.
I grip the chair harder. I can feel the leather creaking under my fingers.
