Flint’s voice dropped. “You think this was a good idea.”
“I think it was precise,” I said, as well as targeted, but I didn’t add that last word.
He scoffed quietly. “You’re enjoying this.”
Mallory inhaled sharply, like she was about to cut in.
I didn’t give her the chance.
“This isn’t about entertainment,” I said. “It’s about momentum. She set it.”
Flint looked at her again. Really looked this time. Saw the afterimage of adrenaline she hadn’t fully shaken. The way her hands were clenched, not from fear, but from restraint.
“You okay?” he asked her.
She didn’t answer right away. “Yes,” she said finally. “I am.” Not reassuring. Declarative.
He nodded once, though his eyes stayed hard. “We’re not done discussing this.”
“No,” she agreed, almost with a sigh even if she still seemed to be vibrating. “We’re not.”
His gaze flicked back to me one last time. “Nexttime, you loop me in.”
I met it without blinking. “There may not be a next time.”
That earned me a look—pure warning.
Mallory turned toward the door. “I’m done being managed. And I want coffee.”
Flint hesitated, then stepped to the side and opened the door for her. The noise of the studio bleeding back in.
Before she crossed the threshold, she glanced at me with a small nod of acknowledgement.
Message received, I inclined my head in turn.
Flint cut me off to join her and I followed them slowly. Their voices had already lowered into something controlled and unresolved. Flint thought the danger was the broadcast. He wasn’t even close.
The danger was that Mallory now knew exactly how it felt to be seen at full speed—and survive it. It wasn’tjustabout the story for her. The story was a huge part, I recognized that. Butshe lived for every beat of the story and how good it felt when she accelerated. She wasn’t going to want to slow down again.
I didn’t see myself discouraging it. As they turned the corner toward the elevator, Flint slanted me a look.
And that was going to create a problem between us.
Chapter
Fourteen
MALLORY
The safe house smelled like disinfectant and recycled air.
Not home. Not neutral. Not even the studio. It also felt…off.Or maybe that was me.
By the time we got back from the station, the adrenaline had already burned off, leaving that hollowed-out ache behind my eyes—the one that came when a moment had gone exactly right and still cost too much.
The ride back had been worse than quiet. Not awkward. Not tense. More guarded with everyone thinking, withdrawing, and shoring up their arguments. Fuck knew I was. So many words that none of us were saying.
Then, Flint and I had curated a relationship built on solid boundaries that involved work. Now, he seemed to stitch himself to my side when it suited him. For all his irritation with me that I didn’t tell him about my plan before going on air, he’d also beenabsentfor over twenty-four hours and hadn’t mentioned a damn thing to me either.
