He looked the same. Controlled. Impeccable. Like nothing had happened. Like everything had.
Our eyes met. Held.
Neither of us mentioned the missing clothes. The ruined shirt. The counter. The fact that standing still hurt.
“I’m going back on air,” I informed him. Informed. Not asking permission.
His jaw tightened—not surprise. Anticipation. “Washington hasn’t cleared it.”
“They will.”
“Flint—”
I raised a hand to cut him off. “Flint knows and is on his way. We’ll be doing a segment on location.” Where that location was TBD for now.
“Mallory—”
“I’m done waiting,” I continued quietly. “So is he.”
Silence stretched between us, thick and deliberate.
Finally, Brewster nodded once. “Then we need to discuss the right angles—and knowing what it costs before we do.”
My body pulsed with a low, familiar ache.
“I already do,” I replied. “And Flint and I will handle the story and the angle. We’ll read you in, but we’ll make the final calls.”
His jaw tightened and for a moment, I could have sworn real irritation came to life in his eyes. Oh well. “Ms. McBryan…” he began almost icily, but his phone buzzed and everything in his expression shuttered as he checked the screen. “I have to take this.”
Without another word, he stalked out of the kitchen with the phone to his ear. It was definitely stalking out. His days of sharing information seemed to be over. Fair enough.
My days of cooperating blindly were done.
I didn’t follow him. That alone told me how far things had shifted. Instead, I kept working.
I refined the angle. Tightened the language. Stripped out anything that could be dismissed as speculation and left only what could survive legal review and public scrutiny. Masters’role. The ledger. The pattern. The silence around accountability. I built it the way I always did—layered, defensible, sharp enough to draw blood without naming the knife.
An hour later, the doorbell rang.
Not the chime. The bell.
Intentional. Assertive. A man announcing himself.
I didn’t have to look up to know it was Flint.
He came in hot—camera case in one hand, shoulder rig slung like a threat, coat still on. He scanned the room the way he always did when he was already mentally rolling tape, eyes cataloging light, angles, exits.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “This place looks like a bunker.”
“It is,” I said. “You brought the camera.”
“Of course I brought the camera.” He set it down and finally looked at me properly. His gaze sharpened. “You look like hell.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.”
He huffed a laugh, but it didn’t stick. “You sure you want to do this here?”
Before I could answer, Brewster appeared in the doorway, then stopped.
