She’s handsome rather than pretty, with the kind of sharp, aristocratic bone structure that photographs beautifully and ages even better—cheekbones that could cut glass, a long, elegant nose, lips that seem perpetually poised on the edge of a dry remark. Her glossy blonde hair is cut shorter in the front, longer at the back. I know she’s in her mid-sixties, though she wears it with pride rather than as a burden. There’s an intelligence in her face that’s almost aggressive, the look of a woman who has never suffered fools and doesn’t intend to start now.
It’s a warning to stay on guard. I straighten my shoulders an inch, and her nostrils flare delicately. She notices everything, doesn’t she?
“I saw your conversation with Vanguard,” she says, releasing my hand. “Fascinating approach. My lip-reading skills are rusty these days, but I had the feeling you insulted him.”
Yes. Definitely notices everything.
“I’m sure he’d agree with that assessment,” I say coolly.
“You’re right about that.” A smile touches her lips but doesn’t reach her eyes. “He’s not used to being challenged. It unsettles him more than he’d like to admit.”
Which means he should be challenged, I think.
“I meant no offense,” I say carefully. “I just believe in direct conversation.”
“So do I.” Van Veen tilts her head, studying me the way a cat might study a mouse it hasn’t yet decided to kill. “Mia Baxter.VantageMagazine. Graduated King’s College with a double degree in Journalism and International Relations. Impressive work, your piece about the reconstruction efforts in Eastern Europe. Less impressive work on that exposé about the Belgian finance minister—though I suspect the retraction wasn’t your fault.”
My stomach tightens as it always does when it comes to my cover, even though all the work I’ve done as a journalist truly is legit, at least according to Vantage. But it means she’s done her homework. The Belgian piece was solid—airtight, actually—until pressure from above made the magazine pull it. The fact that she knows about it, that she’s throwing it in my face like a card on the table, tells me she’s not just making conversation.
“You’ve been reading up on me,” I say. “I’m flattered.”
“Don’t be. I read up on everyone who attends any event my assets are at.”
Assets.Not colleagues. Not employees. Assets.
“Is that what Vanguard is to you? An asset?”
“Vanguard is many things.” She clasps her hands in front of her, her posture perfect, her expression placid. “A symbol. A soldier. A scientific achievement decades in the making. But yes, professionally speaking, he is an asset, and one I’ve invested a great deal of time and resources into developing. You can understand why I’m protective of him.”
“Of course.” I match her measured tone, though inside, I’m cataloging every micro-expression, every careful word choice, as I am sure she’s doing to me. “I imagine Global Dynamix has a vested interest in controlling his narrative.”
“We have a vested interest inaccuracy,” she corrects smoothly. “The media has a tendency to sensationalize. Vanguard’s story deserves better than clickbait headlines and speculation.”
“That’s exactly why I want to do this piece. Something substantive. In-depth. A chance for him to speak for himself, to show the man behind the figurative mask.”
Van Veen’s pale eyes dance with something I can’t read. Amusement? Interest? Suspicion? All three?
“You want access to us,” she states.
“I want the truth.”
“Those aren’t always the same thing, Ms. Baxter.”
A waiter passes, and Van Veen plucks a glass of champagne from the tray with practiced elegance, though I notice she doesn’t drink from it. She just holds it, a prop in her hand.
“Let me be frank with you,” she says, lowering her voice. The ambient noise of the party seems to fade, like we’ve stepped into our own private bubble. “Vanguard has done dozens of interviews. Hundreds, if you count the fluff pieces. He’s been on morning shows and podcasts and late-night programs where hosts ask him what his favorite food is and whether he’s dating anyone. Sometimes, they even make him do karaoke. None of it has beenreal. None of it has shown who he actually is.”
I frown. “And you want that to change?”
“I want to know if you’re capable of handling what’s underneath the surface.” Her gaze sharpens. “Because I watched you just now. You pushed him. You saw something in him that made you push harder. What was it?”
The question catches me off guard. I think about the way Vanguard’s jaw ticked when I called him property. The flash of something dark behind his camera-ready smile. The strange tension in his shoulders, like a man carrying a weight no one else could see.
“He seemed tired,” I say finally. “Not physically. Tired of performing. Like he’s been wearing a mask so long, he’s forgotten what’s underneath.”
Van Veen is silent for a moment. Have I said too much? Observed too much?
Then, she takes a slow sip of her champagne—the first she’s had—and I realize I’ve passed some kind of test.
