I took a breath through my nose, careful to keep my expression composed. The camera was still rolling; the lights were still hot, and Kieren Walker was still watching me like I was the one sitting in the hot seat.
Fine.
I adjusted the cue cards in my lap, fingers steady even though my pulse wasn’t. “There’s concern,” I said carefully, “that you’re past your prime.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then, slowly—so slowly—he leaned forward just enough for the shadows to shift across his face, his jaw catching the light like it wanted to be immortalized in marble.
He didn’t frown. He didn’t snarl. He just looked at me—bored, amused, dangerous.
“There’s concern,” he said, voice smooth as steel, “that you’ve confused sarcasm with talent.”
He paused.
Smiled.
“I guess we’re both disappointing someone.”
I swallowed the instinct to react. To rise. To bite back.
Instead, I gave a neutral nod, but my throat was tight and my brain was already halfway to writing a scathing follow-up article about men who mistake brooding for brilliance.
He reclined again, stretching one leg out casually like he hadn’t just gutted me in front of a crew of interns.
Asshole.
An absurdly attractive asshole.
His sleeves were pushed to his forearms, revealing veined, tanned skin and a forearm tattoo I hadn’t noticed before. His hair—messy, like he’d run his hands through it in frustration—only made him look more smug. And his mouth, God help me, had the kind of dry, slow smile that made smart women do very dumb things.
I hated that I noticed. Hated that I cared.
He raised an eyebrow again, clearly waiting for my next question—or maybe just watching to see if I’d crack.
“Anything else?” he prompted, voice low and unhurried.
I forced my gaze back to my cue cards, flipping past the ones I knew he’d laugh off and landing on one that felt safer, more neutral. Something about mentoring the younger players.
But instead, I looked up and said, “You’re good at this.”
He tilted his head. “At what? Infuriating people?”
“Yes,” I deadpanned. “That. But also… making them pay attention.”
Another pause. A long one.
He didn’t answer.
Just looked at me—really looked—and for the first time all interview, something shifted behind his eyes. It wasn’t soft. Not exactly. But it was less cold. Less defensive.
Like he hadn’t expected that.
Like he didn’t want to expect that.
“I’m not here to be liked,” he said, quieter this time. “I’m here to win.”
I nodded slowly.
